The Right Intention

by Andrés Barba

  Bend Pole B into shape indicated in diagram. Slide through the metal grommet, read Diana’s translation, cast aside on the table by the diagram of what looked to be a tent. He was beginning to feel that even their exchanges were taking on the clipped, imperative tone of instructions. “You running tomorrow?” “Why?” “We could go to the movies, we haven’t been in ages.” “I’m running,” and then they went to bed, like that, with Diana predictably annoyed and him feeling he’d repeated this routine too often in recent weeks (Tug firmly on the end of the pole marked F [see diagram] taking care not to wrinkle the floor of the tent) because Diana, on certain occasions, had become so unlike Diana: a hand reaching through the sheets to his chin, stroking his face, turning it toward her, and then came the foot, the lip, the sheet, the smell of toothpaste, the almost-sweet taste of her neck straining in the characteristic sign of her excitement; “You took your pill, right?” (Each stake is fed through a rubber loop, which can be pinched open for easier insertion. To ensure that stakes are firmly secured, insert diagonally, angling toward structure), the unexpected lubricity of an I-love-you, spoken a bit selfishly because she liked to say that in bed, and then her hand following the obligatory path, which he in turn would facilitate by shifting his body and which Diana would accept because she thought he liked it even though she’d never asked, her foot again, her soft inner thigh spreading, on top of him (If the preceding steps have been followed correctly, the rain cover will fit over the pole frame) although he didn’t like her insistence, and she seemed to forget him for a moment, looking upward, pronouncing his name as if it were another’s, and he would think he could fake it, he did once before and she didn’t realize, he could do it again, a couple of convulsions, over quickly (The rain cover is staked to the ground following the same steps. Now you can enjoy your expertly assembled tent, designed to withstand low temperatures and inclement weather), sheets kicked off that will then have to be back on. Diana’s body pulling back, to prolong the pleasure. And now simply wait for the warm tingling to peak and subside, her first (always her first) and then him, accepting the obligatory fleetingness, the joy which, after the ragged breathing, in the end, is not enough.

  Ernesto was on time and dressed as he’d seen him on so many other occasions. For a moment, watching him approach—his slender beauty, his red hair—he was almost jealous. They did some stretching against a bench before starting to run, making small talk about their lives. Ernesto’s seemed confined to two years of university, where he studied journalism before dropping out, and many more at his father’s greengrocers. His own was embellished with a couple of lies about his degrees and job. He didn’t mention Diana because Ernesto hadn’t brought up his partner. Whether he even had one, at the time, seemed—like the memory of Diana—utterly superfluous. They were there to run, wasn’t that the greater truth? Wasn’t this about pleasures that other people couldn’t understand?

  “Let’s not talk about our private lives,” he said finally, and Ernesto gave him what he thought was a look of surprise.

  “Okay,” he said.

  Running with Ernesto that first night gave him a strange, pleasant feeling of emptiness, and the silence encircled his pleasure, accentuating it the way a picture frame enhances a painting without adding to it. He felt as though anything but running, anything but the sound of Ernesto’s breath beside him, and their synchronized footfalls, had no need to be articulated. The world, in its purest manifestation, was contained there.

  Ernesto was only a year younger, which gave them both a sort of fraternal feeling. They both knew, before their first run was over, that they’d meet up again soon, and that after that night, running without the other wouldn’t be the same. He could see it in Ernesto’s eyes when they said goodbye, exchanging phone numbers.

  “I’ll call you,” Ernesto said.

  “Better if I call you; I never know when I’m going to be home. Work and all that, you know how it is.”

  “Sure.”

  He felt, after saying this, as if he’d betrayed Diana in some profound and ridiculous way. Why lie? What was he afraid of? He started walking home and then turned to look back one last time. Ernesto was running, fast, down the wide avenue that bordered the park. Then, turning down the second side street, he disappeared like some fictional being.

  He called Ernesto for the first time three days later, feeling nervous when he dialed, nervous when a woman answered and asked who was calling; as he told her his name he considered the vast expanse of conversations set in motion when a new voice, a new name, suddenly crops up, asking for a family member.

  “One moment,” said the woman, and then shouted Ernesto’s name.

  He was troubled by his own nervousness, and by the fact that he was calling from the office, as though hiding it from Diana. The sounds he heard through the receiver—unknown hallways, unknown doors—made the whole thing more ridiculous, if that was possible.

  “How’s it going?” Ernesto asked easily, picking up the phone.

  “Good.”

  “I was just thinking about you, actually.”

  “Oh, yeah?” he asked, feeling the sudden simple elation of one receiving an unexpected gift.

  “Yeah. Have you ever run the marathon?”

  “Twice,” he lied. “You?”

  “Just once, last year. I was thinking we could run it together this year. Train together, I mean.”

  “What’s your time?”

  “3:04.”

  “Same as me, more or less. 2:55.”

  “If we train hard, I think we could run 2:45. But there’s only two months till the race.”

  “So when do we start?”

  “Tomorrow, no? This will take a lot of work,” Ernesto said.

  “Yes,” he replied, determination kicking in, gearing up for the plan.

  So often, living life gets in the way of expressing it. Particularly after getting in from work, exhaustion weighing him down, he was filled with dread at what had become Diana’s habitual question, “What’s the matter?” which she now asked as though it were a vaguely affectionate embrace, and which he answered with a predictable, “Nothing,” equally listless, equally habitual, as unnecessary as the question that had provoked it. Her reaction looked a lot like eyes adjusting to the dark. Sometimes Diana’s love drained him. It was a feeling that started in his stomach, and later he could feel it in his hands, in his gestures. If she tried to touch him there were times he couldn’t help but brush her off with distaste; if she asked what the matter was it was worse. There were days he felt like running away. It happened certain evenings, in a certain light, especially since he’d spoken to Ernesto and they’d decided to train for the marathon together: something like the ennui of feeling loved, of having to respond physically to Diana in equal measure, kiss for kiss, touch for touch; it was also the new order of the apartment, which she could navigate blindfolded without bumping into a single piece of furniture: the bedroom, the living room, the bookcases, the collection of porcelain ducks, the bathroom (Diana liked all of the sponges lined up just so), the mirror with a green border she’d made one bored Sunday afternoon. Diana’s obsession with order seemed aimed not at the usefulness of knowing where things were, or the simple pleasure of seeing things in their place, but at the establishment of a hierarchy in which she herself was vital.

  He thought that perhaps he’d never really known Diana, that maybe she didn’t know him either. The fact that they’d dated for eight years before marrying sometimes intensified his unease to the point of exasperation, and he’d stop to run through all the time they’d been together before the wedding, searching for antecedents, examining dissatisfactions—no matter how trivial or momentary—that might justify his current apathy.

  “What do you want for dinner?”

  “Whatever,” and he’d turn on the TV as they sat down, using the news as an excuse—there had been a terrorist attack the day before. The suction filters should be cleaned every four uses, read the last page of Diana
’s translation, which he moved in order to lay the tablecloth, wishing he weren’t there, wishing he were out running with Ernesto, training for the marathon that now seemed, more than a leisure activity, his great aspiration.

  He would never know for certain whether it really was Ernesto. He did know that it looked like him, that for a few seconds he was absolutely certain that it was him—maybe it was the T-shirt, or perhaps simply his running style. He also knew that it altered the course of events in the same way that something mysterious, almost invisible can sometimes change a woman’s mind, make a man’s attempt at seduction hopeless, and not even she would be able to explain it. He knew—and some nights he still thought about this—that that was the reason he didn’t call Diana, and he regretted it, and his regret was utterly futile. He left for the office a little earlier than usual and caught sight of the back of a runner, just for a few seconds, going around the bend toward the park. A redhead, like Ernesto. After the initial shock came the conviction that it was true: Ernesto was training behind his back. Discovering this was like having his last refuge poisoned.

  Over the preceding week, the idea of running the marathon with Ernesto had filled the emptiness Diana produced in him with an agreeable sense of purpose, of purity. And yet the moment he saw Ernesto (though maybe it wasn’t him) he felt foolish for having been so naïve the past several days. Ernesto was training behind his back in order to beat him. It was so obvious as to be ridiculous, adolescent almost. Ernesto wasn’t telling him that he was training extra, knowing that he couldn’t possibly run as much since he had a job to go to, and a wife (though Ernesto didn’t know that). Even working at the greengrocers was like extra physical training for Ernesto, he thought suddenly, amazed at his own obliviousness, his disadvantage, though more hurt than indignant. He phoned from the office and a woman’s voice said that Ernesto wasn’t home, to call back later.

  “Don’t you know where he is?”

  “Why? Is it urgent?”

  “No.”

  “I have no idea where he is. When I got in he was gone. Sometimes he leaves early, but he always comes back at lunchtime. Sometimes he goes for a run.”

  “Thank you.”

  She’d said it. There it was, the leaden truth. Ernesto had promised not to train without him, had said they’d do everything together from the start so they could see who the better runner really was, and he’d broken his promise. He’d thought, in that instant, that finding out Diana was being unfaithful would have hurt less. Ernesto (though maybe the man he saw wasn’t actually Ernesto) had rendered the entire plan meaningless. He didn’t tell Diana when he got home because she would never have understood, because no doubt she’d have been upset at the fact that he hadn’t mentioned anything about it up until then. Seeing her sitting there at the table by the door, beside the collection of porcelain ducks, finishing a translation, was all the dissuasion he needed, and they had dinner in a silence that was filled, as ever, with her voice, suggesting they go away for a weekend, maybe go to see a movie, or to the theater, or out to dinner.

  “I’m suffocating here,” she said finally.

  Then it was like waking from a dream, except that while in it he’d been perfectly aware of each of his movements. He recalled having stood up from the table when Diana said for the first time that she was suffocating, in a tone clearly tinged with reproach, recalled feeling uneasy at that, and going into the bedroom. He was aware of having looked out the window, as though the nightmare vision of Ernesto might appear yet again, running toward the park, rekindling his obsession over what seemed the worst form of betrayal.

  This is what Diana said from the bedroom door:

  “What’s wrong with us?” And he made no reply. He was aware, after that, of having been hugged openly, with no malice, and of a change in pronoun, which made the question honest, “What’s wrong with you? Talk to me,”—and again, at his silence—“I’m suffocating,” and also of the fact that suddenly he could not bear the responsibility of Diana, the burden of Diana, this woman breathing on his neck, ruffling his hair, thinking she owned him.

  “Why don’t we go away this weekend? We can afford it. We could go to the north, or to the beach, the weather’s not bad.”

  He recalled having turned to face her and having grabbed her, hard, by the shoulders, having shouted that he had to train for the marathon, why couldn’t she understand that; and Diana had said, “You’re hurting me,” and that all she did was sit there all day alone in the apartment, never going out, so how could she possibly understand, with the life she led.

  “You’re hurting me,” Diana had repeated, a trace of fear in her voice, as though confronting a strange man for the first time, and he’d realized that he really was hurting her, and felt as if he was waking up when he let go and she took a little step back, half a step, and they stood looking at one another.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, but he didn’t tell her about Ernesto, nor did he say, when they went to bed, that he wanted to cry with anger.

  This is how an obsession begins: making almost no noise, like a single off-key note in the middle of a melody. It never does any harm the first time. It hides away, festering like an unpleasant apparition, reproducing slowly, going unnoticed. Never, until the damage is done, is an obsession understood. First it spills over into the morning coffee, the kiss of a woman attempting to repair a relationship, a job in the probate division of a law firm; it actually seems as though it’s always been there, as though the unpleasantness of its presence is no different from so many other unpleasant things, so many other presences. An obsession makes a man go to the pharmacy for multi-vitamins and take them daily, thinking the whole world rides on this act, and go running in the evenings with another man he slowly begins to detest, almost without even realizing it.

  “Come on, grandpa, you’re showing your age,” says Ernesto, and an obsessed man thinks that he is the stronger of the two, but that it’s in his interest for the enemy not to know this, and to believe his deception has gone unnoticed (although maybe the man he saw that morning wasn’t Ernesto), so an obsessed man smiles and says, “Yeah, yeah, shut up and run,” pretending to be more tired than he in fact is, knowing he could sprint at any moment and leave the enemy behind, but preferring to relish his own deceit, to savor it the way he savors another deceit that no longer seems real when he comes home, one named Diana, whose fear has gone unspoken for the past two weeks since he grabbed her by the shoulders and shouted, feeling no horror at the sort of behavior that would have horrified another.

  The burden of a woman, to a man obsessed, becomes light, almost disappears, because she is not real even though she touches, and smells.

  “We could go to a movie tonight,” Diana says, “they’re showing the kind of movie I love and you hate,” and to the woman’s great shock the man says yes, and sees a movie, and lets her stroke his arm and kiss him during one of the love scenes, but he does not succumb, doesn’t—deep down—consider her real, in the same way that he doesn’t consider real anything that separates him not from himself but from that which is now greater than himself and which has no name although it does have repercussions, makes him count calories at breakfast and run secretly in other parks.

  He’d always loved running the way a little kid loves gazing up at the sky—irrationally, with no interruption seeming possible. Thinking about that now, with little more than a month until the marathon, he felt a vague sense of sadness, disapproval even. He remembered that when he was fifteen years old he went to every school track meet, and always won. Besting his own record by a second or two back then had the allure of absolute perfection, and the feeling of having beaten himself, through his own effort, was so powerful that the applause was irrelevant. But one day he felt suddenly alone, alone against his time, against his body, against his life, and he stopped running for several months, for as long as the feeling lasted, the self-contained world of running crushing his soul, the loneliness that running condemned him to seeming to have no
outside.

  The feeling was back now, with a twist: Ernesto was his outside, his plan. More than the desire to beat Ernesto’s marathon time, what he felt was Ernesto himself rising up before him, against him, the same way Diana (though from a different place) was his outside, rising up against him; both were like a race begun too fast, both like the wall marathoners hit at mile twenty, when they feel suddenly, inexplicably alone and vulnerable, while all the other runners seem to possess a single iron will from which they alone—the weak ones—are excluded, six miles to go and their souls plummet into an exhaustion so complete that they’re on the verge of giving up entirely on the very next step, the words “I can’t” pounding in their temples with each heartbeat, the same way Diana pounds on the keyboard banging out her translations, (“Never plug appliance in without ensuring the surface is completely dry”), “I can’t, I can’t, I can’t” coursing through their arms, so exhausted they hardly swing, the bib number on their backs now seeming absurd, anonymous, almost insulting, Diana repeating her getting-undressed ritual as he brushes his teeth, always draping her pants over the chair the same way, always tugging her shirt off over her head as though vexed, trunk thrashing, Diana—suddenly—no longer seems real (“ideal for beating eggs, grinding meat, vegetables or making any type of soup or smoothie”), and Ernesto resides inside of her, despite not being her, not resembling her.

  It happened. And it happened in an absurd way, to boot. She said:

  “We have to fix this, fix us or . . .”

  “What is it about us that we have to fix?”

  But Diana didn’t even turn to him, didn’t so much as raise her eyes from the computer, seemed not even to be speaking to him, to be clucking her tongue and grimacing at a typo.

  “Or I’m going to leave home, until you make up your mind whether you want to live with me.”