The Darling of Kandahar

by Felicia Mihali

  Manuel was my elder by about 21 years. He was divorced, but his wife lived in the same building with their ten-year-old son. When I lived with Manuel, we often came across each other in the stairwell or the entrance hall. Their separation was rather like a marriage lived on different floors, and my arrival upset their relationship. She finally realized that she no longer had exclusivity with this man, and the idea that another woman held him in her arms made her crazy with jealousy.

  Manuel was experiencing the same kind of ambivalence. The effect our love had on his wife made him wonder if he had been right to divorce her. He would make love with her when I was away and whenever I said anything about this, he would laugh in such a way that I understood I did not have the right to reproach him. He gave this right to his ex-wife only, though he did his best not to bump into her too often in the building.

  His son had a habit of coming to us almost every day to eat or ask for money. Even during Manuel’s absence, the kid would dash into the apartment without ringing, make himself at home on the sofa in front of the TV, and ask me for ice cream. A little later, his mother would come looking for him, and she would also come into my apartment to check up on the state of things. Most of Manuel’s furniture came from their ménage, and as she still felt like its real owner, she glared at me for using it.

  After a while, I refused to let the boy in. Each time he rang the bell, I stood on the doorstep, holding an ice cream in one hand and a couple of loonies in the other, and then I locked the door. Probably his wife told Manuel off about this, but he did not have the energy to make me change my mind. I told him to go and see his family in their own apartment, which, in a way, was an invitation to go and see his wife and do whatever he liked. Strangely, I was not jealous at all.

  I know I was not a good housekeeper. I did not know how to cook, and I often forgot to do the laundry and clean. When Manuel dared occasionally to show me some small displeasure, I did not feel guilty nor did I try to get him to forgive me. My ineptitude did not affect our relationship, because Manuel remained extremely polite and gentle. At the time, I considered his attitude as proof of his love. I now know he took me for a spoiled child, and he thought it unworthy for a man to insist I behave in a mature way.

  He just wanted to keep me. The age difference excited him erotically. I am sure about this, even though I have not had any other boyfriends since. A woman matures sexually even when she does not make love. Thinking about my relationship with Manuel today, I find it quite creepy in many ways. It’s amazing how the desire for sexual pleasure can get us to accept such inauspicious circumstances. We are ready to track down what is wrong with other people’s relationships, but never with our own.

  At the time, despite his wife glaring at me, and his boy’s mischief, I was happy. Every day, I waited impatiently for nightfall to make love. I was insatiable, especially when I compared Manuel to Henry, who had been so shy and clumsy. Manuel was a little plump, sweet to caress, tender. His sex, when erect, seemed to have a life of its own. His rigid organ awoke in Manuel a roughness that he tried to hide so as not to frighten me. Since our first contact, he understood my lack of experience and he tried not to play the teacher with me, while he enjoyed the pleasure that only sex with a young woman can provoke in an older man.

  To calm my fears, he just had to hug me, envelop me in his muscular arms, kiss my lips, caress my hair, and touch my ear when he came. Afterwards, he took care not to fall asleep immediately, but to talk a little nonsense. His consideration for me, and his curiosity about my trivial stories, reduced the discomfort that follows sex. Manuel knew how embarrassing it is for a woman when her partner starts snoring beside her.

  The lack of illusion about our relationship put some distance between us right from the beginning. The fact that neither Manuel nor I ever considered having a baby and thus perpetuating our mixed genes made our relationship a relaxing Sunday affair. And this feeling both increased our passion and limited our love.

  Manuel took charge of almost everything. I made only a tiny contribution to upkeep and finances. My life with him was extremely convenient. His passion helped me overcome the cosmic fatigue caused by the job. I wondered where he got the energy to keep going after ten hours running back and forth in the maze of machines. Through exercise, an individual becomes less and less complex. The rhythm of our activities gradually makes us unsophisticated, and this minimalism is transferred to our desires. The less we do, the less we want.

  Manuel comforted me in my revolt against the monotony of the work. That’s what happens, he said, when a person is still holding on to the 1,000 possibilities of their terrestrial journey. Why 1,000? How did he figure that was the number of chances a person has of becoming somebody else? He did not know, but 1,000 is a nice, round number. Imagine that you could live in 999 other places and be 999 other people.

  Me, I have chosen to be the daughter of a divorced family, who comes from Dracula’s country, an ordinary student and seasonal worker in a box factory. How can I know what the other 999 alternatives might be?

  While he was preparing the spaghetti sauce for dinner, maybe Manuel wondered about the other 999 alternatives for his own life. The diligence he put into domestic chores must have had something to do with the fact that he did not know how to solve that mystery. But he did not talk too much about this: the difference between a young person and an adult is that the former keeps on questioning himself and others as well. Adolescents are not far from the age where, like children, they ask big people to resolve their anxieties. Any answer, even when it is wrong, reassures them. Instead of trying to fool me, Manuel was such an honest man that he acknowledged his ignorance of the best solution for the best possible life. He told me sincerely: “I do not know.”

  I eventually realized that I did not have to make things more difficult that they already were. Manuel had no other vocation besides making love to me and preparing a good dinner. He was not stupid, but he wisely tried to reduce the sadness of his failure. And who decided his life was a failure? He had his own life, and everything was going well. I was there, and he was very happy, for he had never foreseen this possibility in his life. Here you are, proof that we can trust our destiny.

  I often went shopping with Manuel, if only to keep him company among shelves overflowing with plastic bags, boxes and packets. Food was kept far from the sense of smell and the sense of touch: it was nothing more than images printed on paper boxes.

  I was used to my mother’s pace, as she spent a lot of time reading labels and patiently going through the shelves searching for exotic products. Manuel had no time for this: he always went to the same places and bought what he already knew. I did not agree with his choice of groceries, but I did not get involved. Eating so much pizza and spaghetti would undoubtedly have consequences one day, but would I live with Manuel long enough to be worried about his health?

  We went to work together, but I often came back alone, because I did not want to work overtime. Manuel did not stay because he wanted to but because he had to. I took the bus and returned home quickly to sleep.

  Summer passed almost unremarked with this routine that was enlivened only by sex. We had no other pleasure or leisure except under the sheets. We ate and watched TV for a while, skipping from one channel to another, undecided between talk shows and American movies. Manuel’s apartment was ugly and almost empty. He had neither the time nor the energy to take care of it.

  I got ready to go to bed first, as showers took me a long time. Afterwards, I went straight into the bedroom and waited for Manuel, who washed himself in no time. While I was waiting for him, I did not even pretend to read a magazine or a book: when he entered the room, he was surprised that I was watching the door. He sat on the bed, and his eyes warned me of his intentions. I welcomed him all naked.

  Manuel lay at my side and started caressing me while looking up and down my body. One of his hands passed under my n
ape, as if he wanted to hold me in his arms, while his other hand gently wandered between my neck and my belly. A little later, he got to my sex, after having kissed my lips for a long time: the slight pressure of his fingers made me understand that I had to spread my legs. I burned with impatience for him to penetrate me, as I was ashamed of how wet I was. Manuel took his time, for at his age an erection is not that fast. I could have helped him, caressed and encouraged him, but at that time I did not know that. I learned that later, from a book.

  Sex with me was always in the same position, as Manuel was ashamed to ask me for more involvement. As for me, what he did to me was utterly fulfilling. I burned with excitement at every touch, especially when Manuel’s hand went under my buttocks to hold me up, to accommodate his sex. In all this, I had nothing to do, as Manuel was my guide and my master, and I wisely obeyed him.

  This state could not continue for long. I knew that Manuel would slow down, and that that would make me gloomy and, in the long run, scornful. I would not accept any other kind of treatment or longer breaks. I felt that this time was going to come, which would hurt Manuel and make me unhappy. I left him before that moment arrived.

  My mother had been so sad seeing me living with a man who was almost her own age. But she always excelled in not involving herself in my business. She was more embarrassed than I by the affair and avoided the subject. I did not go and see her often and when I did, we just talked about my studies. Sometimes I gave her books to read and then visited her on the pretext of taking them back.

  After a while, though, she no longer worried about my relationship. She had already guessed it wouldn’t last much longer. My mother was up to date with my interior upheavals. At the time when I started to question my relationship with Manuel, she asked why didn’t I move into her flat as she had lived alone for more than half a year. I accepted and left Manuel, who allowed me to leave with no further questions. He suffered, I saw that clearly, but he knew this would happen sooner or later. He also wanted to avoid an embarrassing situation that could hurt a man’s pride. The saddest thing was that he was going to fall under his wife’s thumb and his son’s tyrannical presence again. He could not stand it anymore.

  Soon after, he moved to an unknown address. I went once to look for him and to make love, but he was no longer there. I knocked at his wife’s door to ask for his address, even though I knew her reaction beforehand. She slammed the door in my face.

  The message from Corporal Yannis Alexandridis came one Saturday morning. It was in the middle of my junk mail, and I almost deleted it, as his address Yannis75@hotmail.com didn’t tell me anything. I don’t usually open messages from unknown senders. However, the subject was “Hello from Kandahar,” which is why I didn’t delete it. I still hesitated for a while, but in the end I decided to open it.

  Hi Irina,

  I am sending you greetings from Kandahar. I think you already know who I am. I’ve dared to write a few words to you, and I’m afraid you will think I just want to flirt. What girl wouldn’t? Here, where I am, we are less able to judge the appropriateness of certain things. We live with our regrets about not having dared to do everything we wish to. And after having seen your picture, I’m dying to talk to you. I want to know if your mortarboard was real, if the picture was taken the day you graduated, many other questions.

  I also wonder if you are angry with me because the magazine published my letter about you. I have to acknowledge that it has brought me a certain celebrity status over here, though that isn’t why I sent it. The captain has not stopped making fun of me, and the lads have made me a mortarboard on which they pinned the regimental badge. They told me that as long as I admire women holding diplomas, I should have one myself. In fact I do have one, but not in literature. They pinned my letter to Maclear’s up next to your cover picture, and everyone complains to me for having talked about their little actions at the checkpoint instead of talking about their braveries. They told me what should I write in my next letter to you, and to be sure I’m not wrong about the places where we pushed back the Taliban, they wrote all those strange village names on a piece of paper.

  I threw away their notes because there won’t be a second letter to Maclear’s. I am happy they sent me your address on the understanding that it was your mother who gave it to them. Thank your mom on my behalf. I will stop here, and if you do not want to answer me, I will understand.

  Yannis

  I answered him right away and then regretted it five minutes later. That’s the way it is with email; we press the send button before thinking about it.

  Here is my note, replying to his.

  Re: Hello from Kandahar.

  Hi Yannis,

  The mortarboard is not mine, and the picture was not taken at my graduation. I am still at school. As you see, somebody is always making fun of us.

  Irina

  I stayed in front of the computer for more than an hour, as if Yannis were waiting for my message on the other end. What time was it in Kandahar? I waited for a while, surfing the Internet, looking for information on Zadie Smith’s last novel. It was difficult to find literary references to her among thousands of articles on her life and tastes, published in women’s magazines where she had frequently appeared since the publication of her first novel, White Teeth.

  I got no reply that day.

  The next day, Yannis’s message was in my inbox, after a long list of messages about penis enlargements and prices for Viagra.

  The message was called Mortarboard.

  Hello, Irina,

  If the mortarboard is not true, then is what is written in the latest issue of Maclear’s true?

  Y

  Re: Mortarboard

  Yes, everything is true, but the list of true things about me is very long. I don’t know if you have enough time.

  I

  Time

  At this very moment, I have enough time. I know nothing about tomorrow.

  Y

  Re: Time

  You didn’t answer me. It was not a matter of time but of interest.

  I

  Interest

  Is your list that long?

  Y

  I did not reply to this note. Not immediately. Suddenly, this game exhausted me. Things were shifting, and I knew it was because of me. Statistically, women are the biggest experts in ruining their friendships through email. All my female friends had lived similar stories of losing good friends because of messages coming and going too fast. I shouldn’t have written to him. Not like that. I shut myself up for two days. Yannis’s next letter arrived on Tuesday, around 6 p.m.

  Hello again

  Irina,

  I was up North for a while. However, this is not the reason I did not write to you. Is everything all right? Could we start again?

  Y

  Re: Hello again

  Tell me about you. Let’s forget about the list. What the magazine has written about me is enough for the moment. Now it’s your turn.

  I

  From his next letter, I learned that Yannis was of Greek origin. In fact, his last name had not left me in any doubt about that, and the fact that he originated in Greece was not a happy discovery. My mother’s people had been neighbours of Yannis’s people for a very long time, and history had taught us that his people had caused mine a lot of trouble.

  In the 17th century, the Turks, who were suzerains of the Romanian territories, put the Phanariots on the throne of Wallachia, scum gathered in the worst part of Istanbul, Phanar. These new masters exploited the most wretched people in the country, the peasantry, over a period of more than a hundred years that had no precedent in Romanian history. Clerics were selected from among the Greek clergy, and local priests and monks were willing to be ruined by such erudite men, mistakenly associating them with the noble tradition of Plato and Aristotle
. Greek traders took over the marketplace, cheating on weight and not giving change back to illiterate buyers.

  In short, the Greeks had left such a bad legacy that there’s a Romanian saying, Beware of Greeks even if they bear gifts. Let me acknowledge the classical source of this old proverb, as it draws its wisdom from the story of Ulysses and the Trojan Horse. Apparently, in ancient times, the Greeks were not that bad, as the Trojans only said: Beware of Greeks when they bear gifts.

  Here is why my relationship with Yannis started out on the wrong foot. He was Greek, and therefore I figured he must be a scoundrel. Bored with his life in Kandahar, he was accosting girls on the Internet. If he had had different origins, I might have seen him differently. A therapist from Vancouver just published a book on how to survive a date with a person from another ethnic group: in other words, how to overcome sexual culture shock. Dating someone with a background other than your own is something that people in Canada have to learn.

  The first thing to know is never to be jealous of the time that the ethnic partner spends with his family. On the other hand, the ethnic partner should not be worried if the Canadian refuses to marry him. The Canadian does not have to be stuck with only one minority group, like Asians or Africans: from time to time, they have to try some other races.

  If a Canadian woman makes love with an ethnic guy, she should not be outraged by the fact that he definitively refuses to perform cunnilingus on her: what prevents him from doing so is not necessarily his fear of vagina dentata, but the idea of serving a woman.

  This therapist unfortunately does not propose any solution for white Europeans. In Canada, the word ethnic conjures up spicy meals, dark skin, covered heads, red marks on the forehead, orange turbans, and henna-dyed beards. So what happens with Polish people who still have some problems to sort out with Russians, Czechs with Germans, Bulgarians with Turks, Serbs with Albanians, and Romanians with Greeks? Obviously, we have to wait for another book to give us advice on dealing with ethnics from Europe.