Naked Men

by Alicia Giménez-Bartlett

  Look, there he is. I raise my hand so he’ll spot my table. He smiles my way. Like I said, he’s a good dude. He shakes my hand, takes the chair next to me.

  “Hey, man, good to see you! How’s it going, Javier?”

  “Well, I’m alive.”

  Yeah, he’s alive. But the guy’s wasting away—he’s lost weight and has bags under his eyes. He’s obviously having a rough time with the unemployment thing. There’s this one friend of mine who took it real hard. He lost fifteen pounds the first year. He looked like a skeleton in sneakers. He used to get high all the time in order to forget. He said his self-esteem was shot. The second year he had an easier time of it, though he kept getting high. I stopped seeing him after that—I’m sure he ended up in a real mess. People get worn out quickly, don’t know how to fix their problems, just stand there waiting for the solution to rain down from the sky. And not a drop falls, of course. This is an arid country.

  “And how are you doing, Iván the Terrible?”

  “Why terrible?”

  “It’s what they called one of the Russian emperors.”

  “Oh, OK. Shit, man, we’re off to a good start! I’m going to do an Internet search for that guy, and if nothing comes up I’m coming after you.”

  He laughs, but the poor guy’s worn down. I can tell even though it’s only the second time we’ve seen each other. I’ll see if I can pep him up a little. He may be a brainiac with a college degree, but I’m an outstanding psychologist. I’ve got people pegged right off the bat. One look, and I can even tell you what color boxers they’re wearing.

  “I’m doing OK, man, keeping my head above water. Let’s have a few beers, as the good Lord wills it.”

  “Keeping your head above water?”

  “Always!”

  I hope the teacher realizes it soon and takes note: there may be a hell of a crisis happening, but not even the entire Nazi army, all firing at once, could sink me. I’ve always got my head sticking out of the foxhole. Nothing gets me down. I know what’s what. Politics and banks bore me to tears. I’ve always done my own thing, even back when everybody was rolling in dough and it seemed like they were the masters of the universe. I had a few friends who were more useless than the Pope’s pecker, but they earned a good chunk just for climbing up a scaffold and slinging some bricks around. They’d go to Cancún on vacation, buy Audis or BMWs, and drink high-end wine. Sometimes at the restaurant they’d taste it and tell the waiter to take the bottle back because it was a little past its prime. Guys who’d never imbibed anything but cheap beer and box wine. I’d think, “One of these days, man, you’re going to fall off that cloud, and you’re in for a hard landing.” And that’s what happened. Now everybody’s so screwed, it’s like they’ve been worked over with a screwdriver. If they aren’t unemployed, all they can find is temporary work that doesn’t pay shit. Now it’s Cancún Schmancún, and box wine is back on the menu.

  “Didn’t you see it coming, Javier, this fucking recession?”

  “I guess so. But my teacher’s salary was already really low.”

  Iván may be crazy, but he’s funny—and he’s right too. I didn’t see it as clearly as he did, maybe because I was still pretty young during the construction boom. But I did see that people were improving their lifestyles but not their education. The review courses I taught at school weren’t considered necessary. They were a luxury. The head teacher had learned that schools in the advanced countries offered those kinds of classes. France, Germany—if the European elite had them, why shouldn’t we? But the money isn’t flowing freely anymore, and the courses have been dropped. Nobody thinks they serve any purpose.

  “The nuns didn’t want to pay an extra teacher.”

  “Don’t get me started on nuns and priests! They’re all a bunch of fraudsters and freeloaders.”

  I have to let this teacher know I’m in the same boat; I’m like him, even though I didn’t go to college. But life’s a funny business—he’s been kicked off, and I’m still riding the train. He laughs when I talk, cracking up—he thinks I’m funny. That’s good.

  “Did you know I take flowers to my grandma’s grave, Javier? Yeah, man, don’t laugh, I’m being serious. I barely saw her when she was alive, but now I leave her giant-ass carnation wreaths. They don’t allow candles in the cemetery, though—I guess they don’t want us setting the dead on fire. I know it doesn’t do my grandma much good now, but better late than never, right? You didn’t know her that well, but you must know my Grandma Juana was a pain in the ass. She used to tell stories that would put you right to sleep—wake me up when it’s over. The Civil War, man, if you can believe that shit! How because of that bastard Franco they ate lentils and brown bread every day. And stories about when she got married, to my grandfather, I guess—I never met him. How she wore a white dress and satin shoes, and how her veil was blah blah blah. Shit, man, she told me about every fucking stitch of that fucking dress! It nearly made my head explode, man, really, like a bomb. But the worst was when she’d hand out advice by the fistful. ‘Be a good boy.’ How the hell am I supposed to do that, grandma? Some assholes can’t stop being assholes no matter how hard they try. Anyway, you get it, Javier—my grandma was a real drag, and I’m not going to pretend otherwise just because she’s dead. I loved her, though—don’t get me wrong. The thing is, I don’t understand why we have to go visit the people we love all the time. No matter how often I went to see my grandma, she was still a drag and I was never a good boy, so if nothing was going to change, what was the point? Jesus, man, why are you laughing like that? I’m being serious here.”

  “I know, I know. Don’t mind me. Something came over me.”

  Iván is quite a surprise. He’s no dummy. Everything he says has this sardonic quality that’s humorous, refreshing, but critical at the same time. He’s like a street cat: clever, quick, able to run away from the enemy or turn to fight as the occasion requires. And from the little I know, he could easily have turned out surly or depressive . . . but no, he seems to have come through all right. I haven’t had this much fun in a while. Lord knows how he pulled that off. I’m really curious about how he makes his living, but I’m embarrassed to ask and he’s not telling. Maybe it’s too soon.

  “I have to go, Iván. Maybe we can get together some other time for another beer.”

  “Of course, man, of course we can get together some other time! I’ll call you. Oh, no, don’t even think about it! Put down that check. It’s my treat.”

  Even his face has changed. Poor guy, he must be pretty miserable!

  * * *

  “Genoveva? It’s Irene Sancho. How are you?”

  “Oh, darling, what a surprise! I’m great, how about you?”

  Well, look who’s showed up. I don’t have to ask, I already know how she is: only the lonely, right? That’s why she’s calling. Every time I’ve called her, she’s totally ignored me. She didn’t even want to come to my party the other day. Maybe she doesn’t remember she stopped inviting me to hers. I don’t care, though; I’m not losing any sleep over it. Which is why I called her—because I couldn’t care less what other people think, and so she’d know I’d heard about her divorce. So he flew the coop—welcome to the club of independent women. There are other fish in the sea, as I hope she’s finally figured out. Irene, the perfect woman, always cold and distant, like she’s above all these worldly things. The model businesswoman, daddy’s girl, faithful wife . . . Well, look where that’s gotten you, sweetheart: gored by the bull like everybody else. It’s true that when I went through mine, she wasn’t mean about it. She never looked down on me or took digs at me the way others did. But some attitudes speak for themselves: that pitying look of hers . . . And you know, at least my husband didn’t leave me for another woman—I was the one who left him. I imagine our friends have turned their backs on her, which is why she’s coming to me. Or maybe she’s just bored to death with them. G
oing out with friends from when you were married is awful. It’s like you’re a widow, like you’ve got the plague—everybody seems to feel sorry for you. It’s really obvious the relationship isn’t natural, and the more they try to fake it, the worse it is. They didn’t do that with me, of course, because I was the bad girl, the wild child, the slut who left her husband for a younger guy. Since they were supposedly all progressive and high-minded, nobody ever mentioned it to me, but they treated me with complete disdain. I kept going to their get-togethers for a bit, but after a while I stopped. I stopped because I wanted to. I’d had it up to here with their fakery and sideways looks and pretending to be something they’re not. Plus I was bored, like she probably is now. I’d always thought they were boring, right from the start: so proper, so formal. No surprise there: I met them all through my husband, and my husband’s the most boring man on earth. Poor Adolfo, everybody said when I left him: how he’d always been a gentleman with me, never retaliated or spoke ill of me, still pays me alimony, is having to rebuild his life at this age. Nobody got to the root of the problem. Adolfo is significantly older than I am, and he hasn’t aged well. He’s broad in the beam and deadly dull. He’s quiet, stuck in his ways, a homebody. He repeats the same endless routine: work, home again, and early to bed. You don’t need a hot wife like me for that sort of thing. I may be older now, but I’m still attractive and I’ve got blood running through my veins. Plus I’m lots of fun—people laugh a ton when they’re with me. Not like my ex. And don’t even get me started on the sex issue: just one quick session once a month, God forbid the man wear himself out. No thank you! If that’s what he’s after, he can find a caregiver or a Benedictine nun, or become a monk himself.

  I won’t say Adolfo behaved badly after our divorce because it wouldn’t be true, but the only reason he pays me alimony is because he wants to. I didn’t ask him for it. I never needed his money during our marriage. When my parents died, my brother and I inherited a wad in property and country estates. Of course, we’ve sold most of it over the years, but there’s still a bit left that we could sell if it came down to it. It’s great to have the alimony, of course, because I can leave the inheritance for my old age. But I don’t need it—I’ve never had to ask anybody for anything. I wasn’t born under a bridge. Sure, Irene’s father left her a systems factory, which is nice, and she’s an economist, which is great. I didn’t go to college because it sounded like a drag, but my father owned the largest scrap metal company in Spain. That might sound bad to refined ears, huh? Like he ran a junkyard or something. Anyway, I figure those friends from the club are envious of me, and that’s why they look right past me. And I’ve heard Irene’s company isn’t doing so well thanks to the crisis, so off your high horse, princess.

  “Oh, of course, darling, let’s have a drink at the Manhattan! What time do you finish up at the factory? Perfect, I’ll be there.”

  There’s Genoveva. I don’t know if I would have recognized her if we hadn’t arranged to meet. It’s been so long since we last saw each other! She looks different—all dolled up! Low-cut black dress, a thin white blazer, black-and-white shoes. She’s got two bracelets on one wrist: one made of ebony and the other of ivory. She looks very sophisticated. She smiles at me. We exchange kisses. She practically shrieks:

  “You look gorgeous! I think you’ve lost some weight. Come on, take a seat. I’ll have a gin and tonic with Sapphire and Nordic. And she’ll have . . . ”

  She’s not looking well. Bags under her eyes, gaunt—she must be having an awful time of it. It must be a bitter pill to swallow, having your husband leave you for a younger woman, though I could see it coming a mile away. David always struck me as a selfish type. A brilliant lawyer, absolutely brilliant, but the first thing he does is get a job in his father-in-law’s company. I heard she fired him. I wonder what he’s doing now. Now that he’s a high-powered professional, I imagine he’ll be able to make it on his own. Men are something else, always looking out for number one. Being here with her, I even feel sorry for her. Whatever her faults, she didn’t deserve that.

  “How are you doing, darling? What’s new?”

  “Not much, Genoveva. You know how it is.”

  There’s not much she doesn’t know already. Just this: I’m starting to get sick of being the poor abandoned wife, and if she starts pitying me the way everybody else does, this conversation won’t last long. Now that I see her close up, it seems like she’s gotten plastic surgery again. She used to have crow’s feet around her eyes even after her facelift, but now they’re gone. Her chin was also starting to sag, I remember clearly. She doesn’t look fifty, but she doesn’t look younger either. She looks worryingly fragile now, like a glass doll that might break with the slightest movement. She hasn’t just gotten a couple of touchups—she must have gotten the full treatment again. What for? Is she hoping to stay sexy? Her cheeks are stretched too tight and her eyebrows are too high. Is she looking for a new lover, or is it that she already has one and is trying to be beautiful for him? How exhausting! It must be awful to fight the aging process every day. I couldn’t do it. I go to the gym, try not to gain weight, use high-quality moisturizers, buy expensive clothes, but eternal youth . . . Whatever for?

  “Do you see the old gang much, Irene?”

  “Well, you know how they are.”

  Of course she realizes I’ve called because I’m moving on from that gang. If she asks, it’s because she wants a little tribute from me. She wants me to criticize them, to tell her I’m seeking out her company because she is so far superior to the others. That’s her price. Fine. I want her to know I’m not afraid of social rejection or idle gossip; the only thing I can’t stand is being single in a world full of respectable and supposedly happy couples. I tell her that, tell her I can’t bear people’s phony offers of impartial moral support. I tell her I don’t need anyone to help me stay on my feet: I’m not overwhelmed by crying jags or eaten alive by loneliness or sinking into a depression. I’m not looking for consolation or company. I’m good on my own. David is part of the past now. I don’t mention that I feel profoundly that I’ve wasted my time, failed to take advantage of my life. Instead, I say, “I want to have a good time, Genoveva. I’ve worked too hard, been too serious and formal. So now I want to go to trendy bars, talk nonsense, laugh, do frivolous things, even dance. Do you know what I mean?”

  “Of course I do, honey! How could I not? I understand you better than anybody, believe me.”

  If a good time is what she’s looking for, she doesn’t need to worry about that: we’re going to have a fabulous time. I’m particularly relieved that she said she doesn’t cry. The tears of abandoned wives drag me down like nothing else. The only reason they want to go out with you is to launch into the same old tale of woe: my ex turned out to be an asshole, I never saw it coming . . . such a bore. Life’s short, and if you spend it listening to other people’s problems, you’re wasting precious time.

  “I got another facelift, Irene, did you notice? Dr. Martínez Santos isn’t just a sweetheart, she’s a total superstar, the best of the best. She’s used this new technique on me that’s really amazing. They stretch out your face muscles too, not just your skin, and the really innovative thing is they insert a mesh of gold wires with these strategic anchor points. That way, when the skin gets loose again after a while, they just tighten the wires and ta-da!, everything moves back up, no need for another operation. I’m telling you, it’s amazing, though I have to admit it was pretty painful. I had a rough few days, but it was worth it—it took ten years off me. If you want, I can go see the doctor with you and you can get something done. Of course, you’re younger than I am—you’ve got time.”

  “The first time you got your face done, our friends were pretty hard on you.”

  “They sure were! I’ve got new friends now—you can imagine. But it’s not like before, where we always used to go out as a group, always to the club and the same few restaurants.
I’m much freer. I see my friends here and there, we’ll meet up one day and then not the next, we see each other around . . . We’re adults—there’s no need to go around in a pack all the time. I’m very active. In fact, my life is pretty hectic: gym, massage therapist, beauty treatments, lots of movies . . . But don’t think I’m so selfish I think only of myself. Every couple of weeks I go to a poor neighborhood to help serve at this soup kitchen run by nuns. You’re surprised, huh? I know, it doesn’t seem like me at all, but we have to do something for other people. At Christmas I help out with the ‘A Toy for Every Child’ campaign, and at Easter I help deliver Easter bread and chocolate eggs to low-income families. I’m telling you all this in case you want to sign up for anything. I get a lot of satisfaction out of this stuff, though I know it’s very personal, very much dependent on an individual’s own conscience.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “Great.”

  She listens to me intently, but I don’t know what she’s thinking. Irene’s always been very reserved, indifferent to everything. It’s hard to know where she’s going, but I like her—or I’ve never disliked her. In any event, I hope she doesn’t want me to be her toastmaster. I can go out with her, but I don’t do babysitting. If she starts clinging to my skirts, I’ll be forced to dump her. I’m a free bird, and I fly through life uncaged.

  “Of course we’ll go out together sometime! I’d be delighted. We’ll have an amazing time, I’m sure of it.”

  “Me too.”

  Lord, if all Genoveva can offer me is the address of her plastic surgeon and the chance to do charity work in poor neighborhoods, I think it was a mistake to agree to meet up.