She was empty, scoured-out inside. Her life had collapsed with her parents’ deaths, she had never fully recovered. She had no love in her for this husband, nor the hope of love.
She returned to the dining room. Candlelight fluttered against the three uplifted faces—of which one, missing an eye, was turned to her, with a sly smile of recognition.
As Mariana passed by Ines’s chair the white-haired little woman seized her hand to tug her roughly down and whisper in her ear: “You are safe, Mariana! He will never know your secret.”
Mariana had sought, in her husband’s filing cabinets and drawers, photographs of the predecessor-wives. But either Austin had not kept careful records of his domestic past or, deliberately, he’d bowdlerized these records after his divorces.
Yet in the oldest album Mariana had found what must have been a photograph of Ines Zambranco, crumpled and torn: a beautiful pale-blond young woman in oversized dark glasses, laughing as she exhaled a plume of smoke. She was wearing what appeared to be a silk shawl draped about her slender shoulders, fallen open to reveal the tops of her creamy-smooth breasts. Whoever had taken the picture—very likely Austin himself—had clearly adored this woman, leaning close to her, swaying above her.
On the back was scribbled in pencil Amalfi—Oct. 1982.
The year before the death.
Deaths.
* * *
“Dear Mariana! It has been a deep pleasure to meet you.”
There was a subtle, sly emphasis upon you. So that Mariana was given to know, as Ines smiled coquettishly at her, that Ines had much more enjoyed being in Mariana’s presence than in Austin’s.
Was this sincere? Was anything about the one-eyed little woman sincere? Mariana had never met anyone for whom she felt such a visceral repugnance and dread; yet, perversely, a fascination. She could imagine Ines Zambranco’s ruined face painted by a great artist—Picasso for instance. The demonic strangeness beneath the faux-female smile would exert an irresistible appeal.
“Though it has seemed—tonight—that we have met you before—both Hortensa and I agree—in this household. You—or someone very like you. In years past.”
Ines spoke lightly yet urgently. She was heedless of Mariana’s look of offended surprise at her remark.
“We sense that you have had a great loss in your life—and that Austin has taken you up, as one of his ‘projects.’ He is not comfortable with strong women—only women missing a part of their souls. Once I was the man’s wife also, before I understood this. As others have been—to their destruction.”
Austin was in another part of the house. Mariana had accompanied their guests into the guest wing with the ostensible intention of checking, another time, the bathroom and its supply of large soft towels.
She’d known that it might be dangerous to be alone with the first wife—yet here she was.
Hortensa, too, had drawn away from them, taking refuge in her bedroom with the door closed behind her.
“I hope—I am not alarming you? There is much that must be told—swiftly. Before he intervenes—as always.”
Dinner had prevailed for too long—nearly two hours. A kind of anxious lassitude had settled over the table. Mariana had had an unaccustomed several glasses of red wine and was feeling dazed, a dull headache starting behind her eyes. Yet no one had made a move to rise from the table until at last Austin said, with an air of forced apology, “Well! Some of us have an early day tomorrow . . .”
The party broke up immediately. Hortensa had been yawning without troubling to cover her mouth. Ines was looking tired, though she continued to smile her bright effervescent smile like one who knows herself on camera.
Eager to escape to his study, Austin had said good night to his guests. In the large glass-walled room overlooking a view of the Bay he would check e-mail and cell phone calls until midnight or later.
Mariana wondered if Austin would expect her to join him there, to confer with him about their guests; how he thought the difficult evening had gone, and what plans had he made, if any, for the next morning. Ines would expect to speak with him in private—wasn’t that the point of the visit? But Mariana sensed that she wouldn’t be welcome in Austin’s study just then. Her husband had had more than enough female companionship for the time being.
Ines was saying, conspiratorially: “I can feel the tension in this household, like the air before an electric storm. It has always been here. For Austin is not a sane man, essentially—you must know this by now. His madness, he can disguise as many men do, so the woman comes to doubt her own sanity.”
Ines was gripping Mariana by the wrist. The little woman’s talon-fingers, covered in rings, closed about Mariana’s wrist.
Mariana tried to pull away, weakly.
“I—I don’t think. . . . I have to leave now. . . .”
“You’re very young! And he has chosen you not for your looks —which is very fortunate, Mariana, let me tell you—for the man has made some foolish blunders in the past, drawn to beauty.”
Mariana stood as if hypnotized, unable to move. What was this terrible woman saying—that Mariana was not beautiful?
But she knew this, of course. Only she had not realized that others knew.
“Dear Mariana—you are a spiritual person, we can see. You are not ‘skin deep.’ Don’t be suffocated by the man. You seem breathless—short of breath—like other women Austin has possessed. And don’t think of having children with him—as a way of being less lonely. He will woo them from you, or worse.”
“I—I have not thought of that. I . . .”
“When he kisses you, a man like that, you can taste the poison, yes? A little poison toad dwells within him. Next time you will notice, his saliva has a numbing effect—anestésico.”
Mariana was too shocked to wrench away from the woman. A frantic blush rose into her face, which was already warm from too much wine at dinner.
“It is essential not to allow this man to persuade you into performing certain—how d’you call it—‘love acts’ with him. Though you are his wife, yet he does not approve, truly. For when he talks with his man friends they laugh together, they say crude, cruel things, no one is spared—despite wives, daughters—mothers—none of us seem to matter to them, the company of men, the dog pack, when they are together. Also, Austin is a man of extreme convention, a ‘puritan,’ and will not respect you.”
Mariana’s face was burning now. For Ines’s warning came too late—already she had acquiesced to certain requests of her husband’s, couched in pleading/chiding terms. Mariana I love you so. I adore you. It will not hurt you . . . it would mean so much to me.
“Hortensa, too, fell prey to him, when she was very young. At thirteen, my niece was not so plain-faced, and not so heavy. She accompanies me here each time to show him she has not been broken by him. He pretends not to remember, it is funny—yes?”
“I—I don’t believe that, Ines. That is not—not likely. . . .”
“Why, because my niece is not beautiful now? When young, a girl does not have to be beautiful but only just young—ask your perro-husband.”
Ines tugged at Mariana’s wrist so that she could murmur in Mariana’s ear: “A baby with such a man is—a folly. So young, when we were married, he didn’t want to be a father—though Austin wasn’t so very young, he was at least thirty; and I was two years older. It’s a crisis in the life of a man, when he becomes a father for the first time—he must cease being a child himself and this is wrenching for some men. I mean—it is truly a shock to them—‘narcissists.’ Austin has told you, I hope—our little son Raoul died of ‘crib death’—a terrible surprise—‘sudden infant death syndrome’ it is named. But no one knows what causes it. They say—sleeping on the stomach might be responsible, when the baby is very young. I did not place this baby on his stomach but on his back. Yet, when
I returned, the baby was lying on his stomach, and he was not breathing. And Austin was in the house. This house. It is not the same house exactly now for he has renovated those rooms—the baby’s room is vanished now. Always he would claim that he was out of the house but the fact is, Austin was in the house. He pretends not to remember, but I remember. And our au pair would remember—she’d hiked down into the town, because Austin was not prepared just then to drive down. You see—an infant so young could not turn himself over. An infant must be older than he was, to roll from his back onto his stomach. Yet our little Raoul was ‘sleeping’ on his stomach. And he had stopped breathing. Though his little body was hot—burning with fever. His little face so flushed. I will never forget that heat.”
Ines brushed at her face with her fingertips. Her single eye leaked tears that shone on her thin, powdered cheek.
Now that Ines was stricken with emotion, that seemed heartrendingly genuine, Mariana was deeply moved, though uncertain what to do. She felt guilty, and ashamed, for having disliked this pathetic little woman since she’d first set eyes on her; still more unconscionably, she’d been jealous of her.
“Ines, I’m so very sorry. Austin had told me—something of this. But—”
“But not that he was in the house, and was the last person to see our baby son alive—I know he was.”
“I—I don’t know about that. . . .”
“He expelled me from his bed—from his life—soon after. He caused me to flee back home—to my family—I had a collapse, and was hospitalized for eight months. He will tell the story, it was my film career I chose, over our baby. Yet in fact it was his own career—he did not want to be ‘encumbered’—not to take the child with him wherever he would go of course, but just to think of the child, and to be the father—it was too soon in his career.”
Ines was shuddering with sobs. Her white-powdered geisha face had begun to melt in streaked rivulets of tears and mascara. Her puckered purple-satin top looked ludicrous on the wasted female body. Mariana tried to comfort her, though without touching her—(almost, Mariana was frightened of touching Ines)—but finally, so moved by pity for the older woman, Mariana took Ines in her arms, and held her.
So frail! So small! Ines felt light as a mannequin, a mere husk.
But this was deceptive: Ines wasn’t really frail. In a harsh whisper she told Mariana of the “wild, wonderful dream” she’d had for years—“Even before our young son was taken from me, long ago. How I would give the cruel husband a potion, to render his evil harmless; how I would make a mixture of my own pills—barbiturates, and tranquilizers—which I would give to him in some way he would not know. Even as a young man Austin was susceptible to sinus infections—he took antibiotics often. I would fill the prescription for him, for the antibiotics. But I would substitute for them my own powerful pills. How would he know the difference?—he would not know. He takes many antibiotics, as Americans do—sometimes the prescription would be for one every few hours, day following day for as long as twelve days. And when he fell asleep, from my pills, I would need only to press a pillow against his face—little Raoul may have died in such a way, a pillow pressed over his face.” Ines paused, breathing rapidly. She drew away from Mariana, just slightly: Mariana could see the tip of the woman’s pink tongue, like a tiny serpent-tongue, between the smudged-ruby lips. “Then, I would remove all the pills of mine, that had been in Austin’s possession, and flush them down the toilet. It would be believed that Austin had swallowed barbiturates deliberately, of his own volition. No one would know—he could not have known. The evidence would suggest he had been careless with medication, or had taken his own life. If there was an autopsy—who would know? And so many people close to him, he had injured, who would care?”
Mariana staggered from Ines, speechless. Was the woman joking? Could she be serious?
“I—I have to go now, Ines. I can’t—can’t talk to you any longer now. Good night!”
Mariana turned away but Ines clutched at her with thin, strong arms. The smell that wafted from her febrile little body was almost too much for Mariana.
“Ah, dear Mariana! You could be my own daughter—I am sent to warn you, you see. I did not have the courage for my wild dream when I was young. But you—you will fight for your life. I will remain with you—in spirit. I will not abandon you.”
Fight for your life. But Mariana could just flee the marriage, if she wished.
Unless Austin wouldn’t allow her to leave. There was that possibility.
In recent weeks their nights together had become as unpredictable as the days. Austin was affectionate, you could say sexually voracious, greedy; unless he was distant and distracted. More often lately, Austin didn’t come to bed until late, by which time Mariana was asleep. (Or pretending to be asleep.) Usually he rose at 7 a.m. brisk and cheerful and quick to tell Mariana—“Stay in bed a while. You need your sleep. You’re recovering.”
That night, Mariana fell into a deep sleep almost immediately. When Austin came to bed, an hour or so later, she didn’t wake fully, but was wakened at another time, much later, by a cry somewhere in the house. She sat up, frightened, and Austin told her sharply: “Stay in bed. I’ll see what it is.”
He was muttering to himself, agitated, frightened. In bed he wore a baggy T-shirt and cotton shorts that were often sweated-through and now he reached for a terry-cloth robe in his closet, to shrug into as he hurried from the room. Mariana was uncertain what was happening—a break-in? A fire? Then she remembered their houseguests.
Groggy from having been awakened so abruptly Mariana stood in the doorway of the bedroom, listening.
A female voice, or voices. Austin’s voice. Though Austin had forbidden her to follow him Mariana made her way barefoot and cautious to the other end of the house where Austin appeared to be pleading with someone. Was a door locked? Was Ines locked in the bathroom? What was that faint wailing sound, that seemed to be coming from a distance?
Mariana dared to come up behind Austin and clutch at his arm.
“What is it? What has happened?”
“Go back to bed, Mariana. Please. This doesn’t concern you.”
“But—is Ines ill? Has she hurt herself? Where is Hortensa?”
“God damn it, Mariana! Do as I tell you. Go back to bed.”
Mariana returned to the bedroom but not to bed. She was too excited, anxious.
Has she tried to hurt herself? Kill herself? In Austin’s house?
That is her revenge. . . .
It must have been a half hour later, when the commotion in the guest wing had subsided, that Mariana saw, at an angle, the bright lights of a vehicle arriving on the roadway outside. At first she thought it must be a medical vehicle but she didn’t see a flashing light, had not heard a siren, but she could hear a dispatcher’s radio voice.
Shortly then Mariana saw figures on the front walk, not clearly but at an angle. She had to bring her face close to the window, to see slantwise what was going on. A tall figure—this would be Austin—was walking with another tall figure—Hortensa?—and between them was a child-sized individual, limp-limbed, who had to be Ines. Mariana cranked open a window to hear the frail pettish familiar voice—“I am not crippled for Christ’s sake. I can walk as well as any of you—God damn you!” The driver of the vehicle, evidently a taxi, took luggage from Austin and placed it in the trunk. After some difficulty, Ines was bundled into the backseat with Hortensa. Austin slammed the door and conferred with the driver, and the women were borne away in the chill mist of a dawn in the Berkeley hills.
Mariana examined the guest bathroom in which Ines had locked herself. Both the sink and the Mexican tile floor were damp; the sink had a faint-red hue that made Mariana feel sick to see.
In the wastebasket were blood-soaked tissues. Not just a few but a dozen. She cut herself. She bled, in this house. We will never be free of
her now.
Austin came to look for Mariana, pulled her out of the airless bathroom and slammed the door. He was flushed with emotion, his hair disheveled and his jaws unshaven. Mariana asked what had happened and Austin said it was none of her concern and Mariana said of course it was her concern: she was his wife, she lived in this house, too. Had Ines tried to hurt herself? Had she cut herself? With a razor? What had happened?
Austin said, with a pose of indifference: “She’s gone. And she won’t be back. That’s all you need to know.”
Mariana followed him into the other part of the house. She saw that he was stroking his unshaven jaws with a look of chagrin and rage. But the rage wasn’t for her, at least. She said: “She’s not well. She’s been wounded by—someone. Why didn’t you warn me that she was missing an eye? It was such a shock to open the door and see her, without being prepared.”
“Missing—what?”
“Missing an eye. Her right eye, I think. Why didn’t you warn me?”
Austin stared at Mariana as if he suspected she was trying to joke with him, at this inopportune time. He took hold of her arm at the elbow, to give her a little shake, as one might give a willful child.
“Missing an eye? What on earth are you talking about now, Mariana?”
“Her eye. Ines’s right eye. The empty socket—it’s so horrible to see, and so sad. . . .”
“You’ve had too much to drink. You can’t drink, Mariana. You know that.”
“Her eye—her eye is missing. She must have had cancer. The poor woman, how can she bear to look at herself in the mirror—how can she have a professional career—why doesn’t she get outfitted with an artificial eye? It’s so horrible to see, I’ll have nightmares seeing that empty socket, it would have been kind of you to have warned me, Austin. . . .”
Evil Eye: Four Novellas of Love Gone Wrong Page 5