They returned home to a fully furnished house with two servants. It had three bedrooms, five bathrooms, a living room, a breakfast nook, and a dining room for twelve people. Marti insisted it was only their starter home and that she would get an upgrade once they had children.
Shortly after their return, Pedro started going out with his friends. Thursday was their day for golf and dominoes. One night they were planning a bachelor party for Eduardo, who would be marrying Sofía in a few months. Since Pedro was the first to get married, his friends asked him all sorts of questions. He avoided answering them, hoping that sooner or later they’d grow tired. He had nothing to say, so it was easy to remain silent and let his friends think that he was acting the role of a gentleman. A few years earlier, when he’d started his affair with Marisol, it had taken a huge effort to bite his tongue.
Marisol. He wondered how she was.
One night he came home smelling of cigars and Cuba Libres. Marti was asleep. Pedro put on his pajamas and lay down next to her, snuggling from behind. The booze, combined with being up against Marti’s body—he couldn’t contain himself. He started picturing a nice pair of juicy, round buns. He rubbed against her softly. His thinking fogged up as his erection grew. He couldn’t keep his hands off her breasts. The same hands that pulled out his erect member tugged at his wife’s camisole. Marti kept still and quiet, pretending to sleep. Pedro tried to proceed delicately. He pulled back his wife’s panties. He didn’t even remove them, just pulled them back a bit to make room. But there was no room, no way to enter her. He pushed against her with increased urgency and force, but she remained sealed. Aroused and furious, he removed her underwear and flipped Marti on her back. She kept her mouth closed and her eyes shut, turning her neck to avoid him. But there was no avoiding him. Pedro penetrated her with force. Marti bit her lip to hold back a painful scream. She was no longer a virgin. Pedro pounded her with force and anger until he finally came. He collapsed beside her and pretended to sleep as his wife’s sobs grew louder.
The next day they behaved as if nothing had happened. From then on every Thursday night Pedro drank in order to get up his nerve and proceed in more or less the same fashion. In the end no matter how great the family name of Tordella de la Vega, Marti was his wife and had to fulfill her duties. Sooner or later it would cease to hurt her.
40
The Desert
Blood dripped down her inner legs. A nearly imperceptible pain had been her warning. Marti already knew what to do. Run. Run the bath and try to stop her heart with her hands so that it would not run away as well. Weep without making a sound. Remain completely still in that hidden nook, however long it took, until she could summon the courage to stand up, open the drawer, put on a thick sanitary napkin, and change pants. She would put on something black. She was in mourning. After two years trying to get pregnant, the diagnosis had been cautious but unequivocal. She was barren. She could not conceive. Or perhaps she could, but it would not attach to her uterus. Her body rejected it. They couldn’t say why, even after the doctor had spent more time between her legs than her husband.
Dry as a desert. Infertile. She was sterile, incapable of reproducing. It hurt to see herself in that light. She felt it in her lungs; it poisoned her blood and corroded her from within. She, who had always been capable of anything.
Marti suspected divine punishment. She made multiple promises. It was the only way she knew to counteract divine will. She promised to never think about herself again, never feel superior to anyone, devote her life to children or mothers with problems, or even to both, pray every day of her life, recover her faith. She still had faith. So how was it possible that God had done this to her?
Impotence was horrible. She had never before felt vulnerable. From her earliest recollection she had asked for and demanded; she’d given orders, and they were followed. She’d wanted for nothing. They’d spoiled her as a child. They gave her sweets and gifts, they brought her breakfast in bed and put away her clothes. Now she had servants and a chauffeur. She bought, she managed, and she made decisions. Her mother, her father, the police officer, her friends, and in particular her husband always did what she wanted. But the only thing she wanted—what she most wanted—she could not have.
“Why keep trying if I can’t have children?” Marti asked Pedro one night.
“The doctor hasn’t said that,” replied Pedro, rubbing her stomach. “He says to keep trying, that you never know.”
“Yes,” Marti said, holding back her tears. She was fed up with pity, with crying all day long.
41
Exhaustion
Every day Marti rose automatically and punctually at six in the morning. Once dressed, she read the newspaper and had coffee and toast with the television on. When Marta was a little girl, Marti always waited for her before having breakfast. She would only allow Marta to eat in front of the television or in the kitchen when she had work or social commitments and could not eat with her. When she was home, Marti would never leave her alone. It was sad enough that the girl didn’t have any brothers.
But that was years ago. Once Marta began college, she no longer ate breakfast, and Marti no longer waited for her. Their relationship had been severed to such a degree that sitting down to eat was a huge effort, a hostile event that she preferred to avoid.
On this morning the fine drizzle seemed to float, as though the clouds rested on the floor like dew. The tree trunks were emerald green. A damp, velvety moss, more microbe than plant, covered everything. Her surroundings seeped into her bones, as though the nerve endings normally found in the epidermis had retracted and sunk to the depths of her bones, rooting the chill into the medulla and the marrow.
On her way to inspect the renovation of a center in the Doctores neighborhood, Marti could not recall a single time in her life when she had gone back to bed. But rest seemed to beckon her in this rain, and she’d asked the driver to take her home. The car made slow progress along Reforma. Marti automatically pulled out her agenda and started planning her week by jotting down notes:
Send flowers to Señora Del Valle. (She’d seen the obituary that morning.)
Order tickets for the festival at Centro Histórico.
Make New Year’s reservations.
Pay the maintenance on the Villa del Mar house.
Have the waterproofing inspected.
Find a new driver for Marta.
Make an appointment with the dermatologist. (A few years back she’d had the spots on her hands removed with astounding results. It was time to do it again.)
She reread the list while they passed Petróleos Fountain, then recited the day’s chores to Israel: florist, dry cleaner’s, supermarket, pick up the suitcases that had been repaired. Israel never forgot anything. Yet he never did anything without being told. He would never have informed her, for example, that the suitcases he had taken in for repairs last week were now ready.
She didn’t need to explain how she wanted the flower arrangement for Señora Del Valle. Ariel, the florist, had been designing Marti’s arrangements for over ten years. But while scanning Town & Country at breakfast, she’d noticed a pyramid-shaped bouquet of white amaryllis with a banana leaf covering the bottom of the vase, and she liked it.
“Tell him to do it like this,” Marti said, handing Israel the picture she’d cut out of the magazine. “If it doesn’t look exactly the same to you, bring it to me, and I’ll look it over.” It was a blessing to have someone like Israel whom she could trust.
The driver honked, and the new gardener opened the gate. She had asked Pedro to order an automatic gate. It was the last bit of the entrance that had not been modernized.
She wondered if Pedro also felt tired. He used to diligently complete all his errands, as though he had resigned himself to do her bidding, and seemed happy to do everything she asked right away. But he seemed absentminded of late. The gate was proof of this.
Marti heard the maid’s rubber soles approaching the vestibule. She carried
a silver tray with a glass of water and her phone messages. Marti perceived the young woman’s look of pity but didn’t dare to ask if she’d had a bad night. She, too, had probably heard Marta come in at four in the morning and, like Marti, not slept well afterward.
42
Her Lips
There was a time when the image of Gaby’s lips filled him completely. He didn’t need to imagine anything else—only those full lips barely grazing him.
Pedro almost never kissed his wife on the mouth. Marti’s lips were an abyss, a black hole. When his lips came into contact with hers, he lost all sense of desire, as if they were an electrical appliance that sucked up all his energy. His blood flow retreated, his hands grew cold, and his penis shrunk, as if he’d swum in icy waters.
His wife had asked him a third time to get the gate fixed. He didn’t want to. He wasn’t interested in obeying her orders or attending to her whims. The fact that they needed to better secure the property did not interest him in the least. Anyway, with a honk of the horn a boy came to open the gate. Why change that? The only thing he wanted to think about was being with Gaby, and with those lips. So full and soft, with that shiny gloss that smelled of strawberries. His pulse quickened, his desire swelled like a bullfrog’s throat. His eyes shone when he thought of her. Marti’s lips, on the other hand, were painted a bloodred that contrasted with her pale skin and violet eyes. They were sterile, just like her pussy, and capable only of rejecting, criticizing, and saying no. They were more likely to feel disgust than pleasure.
Pedro pictured Gaby and her small white teeth, her tongue provocatively licking an ice-cream cone. His memories of her were happy and erotic, pornographic even. Hers were insatiable, greedy lips that wanted to consume everything. Marti, on the other hand, would pick at a morsel in a three-star restaurant, her refined hand daintily holding the silver fork as she said, “Too much butter, don’t you think?”
How had he put up with it all this time? Pedro wallowed in self-pity. He regretted having wasted so many years trying in vain to please her. He would not make the same mistake twice. He planned to enjoy what years he had left to live. He still had a few.
43
The Marriage
Almost without realizing it, they pushed each other away. They repelled each other like magnets of the same pole. He went to bed early; she went to bed late. He enjoyed sailing, and she got seasick. They maintained an active social life in order to avoid being alone together. They would stay married forever so long as each one kept to his or her respective side.
There were no conflicts, because they dreaded confrontation. They’d been raised to be pleasant; no one had bothered teaching them how to fight. They didn’t know how to do it, not even to indulge in passive-aggressive behavior. On the contrary, they thoughtfully performed niceties. He folded back the bedspread; she brought him a glass of water. Marti bought him luxurious gifts, and Pedro lavishly feted her birthdays. These token gestures did not bring them closer. Each played their part in a carefully crafted script that did not leave room for interpretation, much less improvisation.
A few years into the marriage, Marti’s father had spoken with her. He thought it would be best to name Pedro as his successor and executor of the family assets. “In reality he’ll only collect the rent. For all intents and purposes Manuel will hold the reins. He has my full confidence.”
Manuel was his right-hand man. No sooner had her father died than the right-hand man began amassing riches. She’d hear bits and pieces of information about how he owned the Bond ice-cream shops and a ranch in Oaxtepec. His kids were driving imported luxury cars.
Working up the courage to speak with Manuel took Marti several months. What else could she do? Ask for an outside audit? When she consulted Pedro about the matter, he naïvely remarked that he hadn’t noticed anything, which only worried her more.
“What a surprise to see you around here,” Manuel had said when Marti showed up unannounced at the office one day. “To what do I owe the honor?”
Marti had rehearsed her answer a thousand times over. She had goose bumps, but her voice did not betray her. “I’d like to see the account statements.”
“All of them?”
“Yes. I’m considering a new venture.”
“A business?” Manuel said, straightening his back and sitting up on the edge of his seat.
“No, more of a nonprofit foundation.”
“I’ll send everything to your home tomorrow. There are several boxes. Do you have someone to help you?”
“How silly of me! No, I don’t,” Marti said, laughing, “but I’ll find someone. You know how stupid I can be.” She laughed some more. “Have them sent to my house, please.”
Ten banker’s boxes crammed with papers were delivered to the house the following day. Marti was prepared. She planned to set up a maternity clinic as she had promised. Month after month Manuel deposited the same amount of money in her account, adjusted at times for interest or exchange rates. The funds fluctuated a bit depending upon the buildings, but Marti knew there was more to it. Using her charity projects as a ruse, she wanted to involve herself in the business and prevent Manuel and Pedro from deceiving her. That very day she hired a twenty-four-year-old business manager, a twenty-two-year-old accountant, and a nineteen-year-old secretary. Marti was thirty-two, her daughter already in preschool.
As soon as offices became vacant in the building where Pedro and Manuel worked, Marti took them over for her new project, dedicated to assisting pregnant women. Once she got started, no one could stop her. The needs of Mexican women had no limits and neither did Marti’s drive. In three years she established three centers and a childcare facility. Marti threw herself into the work, passing by her father’s old office almost every day and keeping an eye on the family assets.
44
The Business
Pedro hung up the phone. How was he going to tell Gaby that Marta didn’t want to help him? She wouldn’t even answer his calls! Gaby insisted that they set up their own business, but for that they needed money. They would have to rent a space, hire a secretary. How was he going to do all that? Without funds there was no way to move ahead.
He thought about all the money he’d spent on women. It was a small fortune—and for what? Had he saved that money, he could be supporting Gaby now. But no, he’d been a lecherous idiot, and this was his punishment. Pedro viewed his life as a series of bad choices—from beginning to end he’d made mistakes. Looking back, he saw that any other path would have been better than the one he’d taken. If only he hadn’t married Marti. Now, almost sixty, all he had was Gaby. Even he realized that wasn’t much.
He went to see her in the adjoining room, where she watched television while exercising on a treadmill. Avoiding her stare and her new boobs, he said, “She refused.”
“Of course she refused,” Gaby said, breathing heavily. She turned off the television and pushed a button to bring the treadmill to a halt. “What did you expect, Pedro? Did you really think she’d help you set up a business after throwing you out of the house? What planet do you live on?” She stared at him. “Listen, we don’t need her. We’ll start from scratch. Sylvia can lend us her office when we need it for meetings, but we’ll make phone calls from the apartment. First thing tomorrow you’re going to call all your buddies and tell them that I am starting a business, so it doesn’t look like you need them, understand? Make it seem like it’s something to keep me busy. If they know of a property, I can move, rent, sell, renovate, or manage it. Okay? We’re in no position to put on airs.”
“I don’t have my address book,” said Pedro, crestfallen.
“Then go by your office tomorrow and use those pretty eyes of yours to get it from the secretary. We are going to do this. Understand? Whatever it takes, we are going to do this.”
“Fine.”
“Here,” Gaby said, handing him the newspaper’s real estate section. “Help me by marking any listings that look interesting.”
Th
e following day, address book in hand, Pedro made calls. He considered talking first with the people he knew best, his cousins and close friends, but he felt a deep sense of shame. What if his voice gave him away? Would they think he was asking them for a favor? He decided to work in reverse, starting with distant friends. After spending an hour paralyzed in front of the table and in fear of being interrogated by Gaby, who was in the next room, he decided to begin with the letter a.
He dialed Javier Ábrego.
“Ábrego Industries Inc.,” answered a voice.
“May I speak with Javier Ábrego, please?”
“Whom may I say is calling?”
“Pedro de León.”
“From where?”
“What do you mean from where? From my house,” said Pedro, confused.
Gaby leaned her head into the doorway and whispered, “Say it’s a personal matter.”
“What is this regarding?”
“It’s a personal matter,” said Pedro.
He was put through.
“Hello, Javier?”
“What’s up, buddy? It’s been a while! How have you been?”
“Good! You?” Pedro didn’t know where to begin.
“Did you hear about Mario’s son?”
“Yes, how awful.”
“Haven’t you read the paper? They’ve found him.”
Pedro wanted to kick himself for not checking the headlines that morning. He’d been in such a rush to get in and out of his old office before the others got there that he’d forgotten altogether. “Yes, it’s incredible,” he said, hoping Javier would fill in the gaps.
“Unfortunately, he was found dead. They think it was the same gang as with Alberti’s son, the ones who held the kid for two months. That time even after receiving the ransom they returned him half-crazed from torture. At least Mario can bury his boy in peace. Alberti is worse off with his son in the hospital. Can you believe it? Are you going to the service?”
Becoming Marta Page 14