If one thinks long and hard, woman has always depended on man, willingly or not. Even in their life as a couple, he always had the last word. The only times she held the advantage were when he desired her or was courting her. Then she had the power to make those exhilarating moments last, during which time, in an effort to conquer her heart, he was capable of tearing down the walls, jumping over hurdles, and getting beaten. Those were the times when gifts would accumulate and his attention would intensify . . . You’ve got to admit that those are the most amazing moments in a woman’s life. He would tell her that she was by far the most beautiful woman, and she would end up believing it. Her caprices were still qualities, legitimate demands, that he hastened to satisfy in order to neither displease nor annoy her. His amorous gaze wooing her was so penetrating and so sadly sincere that she would hasten to abbreviate his moments of suffering, although delicious for her, by the gift of her being. That was when she was the queen in his eyes.
If there was a period following his confession that was no longer so enchanting, she would not let it upset her. Because between two caresses and the intimate conversations that he would multiply and prolong delightedly, he would tell her in a soft whisper, in the hollow of her ear and in every position, of his burning desire. He would fulfill the most beautiful promises that the young woman—hopelessly in love—so liked to hear, something like: “I-will-not-cheat-on-you-will-not-hide-anything-and-will-love-you-always.” He found physical and moral qualities in her faults. He was capable of fighting a duel or against an army to be sure not to lose her to another. In her arms, he becomes her lover, then her friend, her child, and, finally, her father. Coiled in his strong arms, she would throb in ecstasy and swoon with pleasure. She was to blame for all his sensual weaknesses, she was the woman he desired, and he would devour her with haste and greed. Inside of her, he became her, she became him. They were one when he was inside of her. Even in their dreams, they would meet. They reveled in the vigor of their eternal love . . . An eternity that, alas, would not last long. He got too used to this happiness too quickly, and that led to his inattentiveness and mental absence. She went after her dreams. She didn’t want to believe for a single second that her beloved’s far-off gaze, while he lay sprawled between her two breasts, indicated some kind of lassitude.
The time came when she was merely a presence to him. Of course, still sexually attractive, but no longer the focal point of his world. Through him, she could see her defects emerge, and, progressively, they became cumbersome obstacles. From that moment on, the talents he deigned to recognize in her were limited to her domestic duties. Well behind in terms of the rapid regression of his feelings, she clung to the not-so-distant memories of their love. The rare flaws she found in him were quickly excused, minimized in light of his exceptional sexual and intellectual abilities.
The beautiful dream came to an abrupt end when he called her by another name or evoked memories of time spent with another. She heard it straight from him: she was ordinary and did not excel in culinary skill. As a favor, he told her that her muscles were losing their tone and that her eyes had dark rings under them when she woke up. Those revelations coming from him hurt her deeply. So as not to lose him, she ran to the beauty salon to try to improve her skin, which was also withering. As she did some soul searching for him, he became increasingly distant; she could no longer feel his smell . . . The great love they had shared was lost, never to be found again.
From then on, she would take care of the house and the kids—if there were any. If they hadn’t gone to city hall, they would have separated, promising each other that they would remain friends, if they were smart. After all, wasn’t their friendship the best thing that could have happened to them, and wasn’t it also tangible proof of their great love, eroded by promiscuity and time!
If she didn’t stay strong, her reason for living would vanish with him. She would live with the memory of a blurred past, but the memory would always be there, and it would have no future. When she got old, she would say that after his departure, she had not lived but only survived.
And him! What would have become of him after and without her? Well, a few months after, he would have met a woman twenty years younger than she, who would make him relive the emotions and follies of his youth, having sex in the kitchen, even at the kitchen sink. He would become a young lover at the age of fifty, an excited spring chicken rather than a wilted old flower. And he would begin a new love life, everything new and fresh, whereas she would content herself with sporadic meaningless flings, unless with determination she succeeded in filing him away, too, with the obsolete memories that held no interest for her.
THIS LONG interior monologue ended as she closed the trunk of her car. Instead of heading directly home after her doctor’s appointment, she had gone to do her shopping at the supermarket. She opened the door and was about to step into the car when a warm hand on her shoulder made her jump. She whipped around. Her secretary gave a stifled laugh. The two women stared at one another as if they were meeting for the first time. Emilienne’s heart started pounding; at the same time, she felt immeasurable joy. Her face lit up. Dominique mustered her courage and whispered:
“Can we meet later in lovers’ woods, right behind the supermarket?”
Emilienne shrugged her shoulders. Her eyes were ablaze with the fire that stirred inside of her. So as not to lose any time, she got into her car and disappeared into the Saturday traffic, which until then was like any other. Since their bodies had brushed against one another during the five criminals’ public execution, Emilienne had refused to analyze the new urges of her flesh. All she knew was that her senses had discovered a strange desire, aroused by the thrill she’d felt when she first came into contact with that other woman.
So she was very excited when she arrived home. On the terrace her cook sat reading an adventure book. Without waiting for him to come help her, she took her groceries out of the trunk and unpacked all the large parcels and bags. Then she prepared some chicken with peanut sauce for herself in the pressure cooker.
Intrigued by her enthusiasm in her work and her good mood, the cook stopped washing the fruit and followed her movements attentively. Something out of the ordinary was happening to that woman, he thought. Although, he hadn’t noticed anything unusual when he’d arrived in the morning. Obviously, his boss had not spent the night with his wife.
Before she left for her rendezvous, Emilienne took a cold shower and put on a pair of jeans and a blue cotton blouse. To complete her disguise, she added a curly wig. One would have to be quite clever to be able to tell it was her in that outfit.
She parked her car in the lot reserved for the supermarket customers so as not to attract the attention of curious onlookers in this city where people were watched closely and could easily identify others by their license plates. Then, a tiny bit tense, she walked the five hundred yards to lovers’ woods.
She’d arrived early, a habit she was unable to break despite all the time she’d spent in Kampana, and disappeared head first, knees slightly bent, through one of the discreet entrances to lovers’ woods. To be able to see her secretary when she arrived, she curled up behind the first shrub on the footpath. From there, she would have a perfect view of the comings and goings of the passersby without being seen.
Several couples, arm-in-arm, snuck in-between the trees then disappeared in the dense brush. You had to admit, the lovers’ woods certainly deserved its name.
Every time someone came near her, Emilienne lay down flat on the grass. It wasn’t long, though, before Dominique showed up, smiling and out of breath. She wore, with elegance and yet simplicity, a tight-fitting minidress and flats. Avoiding each other’s eyes, the two women slinked between the giant trees, and could tell, at the curve of each trail, thanks to the cooing they heard, there were already men and women lying together on beds of leaves.
Dominique, who walked ahead, was the first to find shelter for them and, without turning around, walked toward it w
ith a natural air, as if she had come alone.
Emilienne strolled past the spot her secretary had found, then backtracked and, after looking all around, leapt into the turn-off, allowing the shrubs to close the opening behind her. She found Dominique nibbling on a stem, spread out on her stomach on a mat made of dead leaves. Her minidress was hiked up so that Emilienne could see her buttocks and firm, muscular thighs. She sat down, with her head turned toward the bush.
“Your jeans look good on you,” Dominique said, breaking the silence, as she got up slowly, like a cat being caressed by the sun.
“Thanks. I have a few pairs I haven’t worn since I put on weight. Actually, it’s a wonder I managed to get into these.”
In turn, she picked up a twig that she cracked and broke into small bits.
“I went to see a gynecologist this morning,” she went on.
She turned, finally, toward her secretary.
“Oh! For your childbearing issue?” asked the young woman, placing her hand delicately and hesitantly on Emilienne’s thigh. “I understand,” she went on, watching her impassive face closely.
“Yes, I want to try a treatment one last time.”
She took Dominique’s caressing hand and enclosed it timidly inside hers. A saddened shadow crossed her face. She smiled nonetheless.
Dominique came to nestle up to her and said softly:
“I see that you are determined to get your husband back. Do you know everyone in our company knows that your marriage isn’t working anymore? It would be a good thing if you could prove them wrong. I think we can talk freely now about this problem that’s bothering you.”
The two women stared into each other’s eyes. What exactly were they thinking? Emilienne was the first to break the short, troubling silence:
“I will only feel like a woman again when I am able to give my husband more children. When he looks so tenderly at my nephews, it’s as if he were piercing my heart with a dagger. I feel I am still capable of giving him the opportunity to hold children in his arms that would really be his. After all, there are women who give birth at forty and I’m not there yet.”
She stretched out and then laid her head across her new friend’s thighs. Smiling, Dominique lifted her blouse and walked her long painted nails delicately across her breasts as she took off her bra.
Emilienne froze, but let it happen. She closed her eyes.
“The opinion I gave the other day about barren women was very harsh; I hope you’ll forgive me. But do you sincerely think that your husband will come back to you if you give him this child on whom you’ve pinned your highest hope? The birth of a child doesn’t always bring couples closer together. It is possible that he truly is in love with his mistress and, out of malice, he might blame you for it, convinced nothing will ever change between you. And I’m sure many people feel sorry for him and don’t blame him for his double love life.”
Emilienne jumped up and pulled her blouse back down. Her brusqueness was in response to the ironic tone she believed she had heard in her secretary’s voice. Surely, she was mistaken, though, since Dominique seemed rather sympathetic about her boss’s love drama. Nevertheless, her retort was cutting:
“If a child cannot bring us closer together, then we will divorce. We will not be the first to do so, nor will we be the last.”
She got up.
“You’re right,” furthered Dominique, completely serene. “I must say that it would be very hard for you to ask for a divorce. In my opinion, it’s better to forget a man who loves his mistress than to hang on to him and probably suffer. What I can promise is that I am here for you and ready to give you whatever support you need. And I hope that nothing and nobody will undermine our friendship.”
She placed her head on her neck and wrapped her arms around her. After a prolonged silence, she raised her head and asked, seeming distressed:
“Right, Emilienne? What we feel for one another cannot be destroyed!”
Emilienne smiled and leaned over her.
“Shall I drop you at home?” she was happy to ask in an authoritative, detached tone.
“Already?”
“Yes, I have to go.”
“Fine!” Dominique said reluctantly. “You go first, I’ll meet you at the car; I know where you parked.”
EMILIENNE LIT UP as the days went on. Dominique’s words, which had shocked her when they’d met that first time in the woods, now seemed more understanding and gave some importance to their relationship.
Although she could calm it at will, for a week, Emilienne lost herself to this new intense outcry of pleasure that surged in her body each time she exchanged caresses with her secretary in her office. This happy change, she believed, had come to soothe the emptiness that grew inside her when, on the same date of every month, that precious liquid she could not keep inside her flowed out.
When her husband suddenly seemed to remember her biological needs, making love to her twice in one week, part of her remained frozen. It wasn’t that her love for him had lessened; it was, rather, to her great amazement that she loved him differently, in a way she could not define. At the same time, her whole body would draw back when he touched her, as if to avoid accumulating additional wounds just when she was managing to heal old ones. With that involuntary inertia, she was able to stop her own impulses and keep her body from participating in her husband’s physical assaults. Because she was experiencing another love, she now thought of herself as a mere depository for her husband’s waste, which she had to absorb if she were to achieve her goal. Besides, she grew less tolerant of Joseph’s double life, which threatened her dignity as a woman. And, she was even less tolerant of the wrenching between her flesh, which cried out for him, and her rebellious consciousness, which flouted tradition. She could not bear submitting to him so that she could have the child she was waiting for.
Whatever she did, whatever she said, everything unavoidably brought her back to that necessity which dominated her life. Everything was tied to that obsession. Was her existence to be determined solely by a few drops of sperm? What was it that made her believe that the greatest disruption of her life would come delivering a being that would form inside of her?
Emilienne shook her head vehemently. It would be disastrous if she started doubting herself now and pushed him away out of pride before even trying the treatment that would cure her.
As she waited for her next appointment, she saw herself become another woman; in the span of a few days she became less concerned with pleasing her husband, and more so with pleasing a woman like her. For her, she made sure that each of her outfits accentuated and flattered every part of her body. Without realizing it, some kind of dynamism seemed to be dwelling inside of her, and she was in a good mood when she brought her exam results back to Dr. Pascal.
HER GAIETY did not last long, however, in the face of the gynecologist’s awkwardness when he saw the results she’d just brought.
“That is impossible, Doctor,” she cried out. “Where does it come from, this illness that strikes me down every time I menstruate or a fetus forms in my womb? Is that not proof that I am ill? Speak, Doctor! I am going crazy.”
She got up, paced around the gynecologist’s office with her hands behind her back, then sat back down in frustration. Her head fell to her chest.
Although he was used to his patients’ problems, Dr. Pascal could not help sharing the suffering of this woman stricken by this terrible disappointment. He, too, got up, placed his hand on her shoulder, and said calmly:
“Let’s go over it, if you’d like. You’re sure you’ve never had tuberculosis, filariasis, or schistosomiasis? Those diseases can also make a woman sterile. Everything shows us that your ovaries are functioning perfectly and there is no specific problem with your ovulation. The tests you’ve just had reveal no traces of sexually transmitted diseases like trichomoniasis or herpes. Your fallopian tubes are not blocked either. Some women have high levels of acidity in the vagina, which kills the sperm, but that
is not your case. In your case, the amount of cervical mucus—the fluid that carries the sperm to the uterus, where they meet the ovum—is normal. We must consider, too, if it weren’t for your repeated miscarriages, we would have concluded that your husband did not have sufficient sperm in his semen due to certain venereal diseases. We must equally exclude the possibility that he is incapable of erection or any type of testicular malformation since he was already able to produce a first child with you.”
“What do you mean by testicular malformation?”
“Actually, it’s a congenital malformation of the testes. There are several types of malformation. I will name only one for you: ectopic testis, characterized by the absence of spermatozoa or by spermatozoa with deficient mobility. I don’t believe it necessary to ask you if your husband has been castrated in an accident or if he has had testicular atrophy after a disease like the measles after the birth of your daughter, because that you would know.”
“No, Doctor, he hasn’t had any of those diseases you just mentioned.”
“You must equally know that he is not diabetic. Has he had, however, tuberculosis after the birth of your daughter? Has he become obese?”
“No, Doctor, my husband is normal and he is healthy,” she replied, irritated.
“It was necessary that I discuss all of those diseases, though, for in most cases, they don’t allow for the egg to form.”
He sat back down on his chair and added:
“Listen, Madame, the best would be for you to come back to see me with your husband, or, if you wish, he could come alone. Some questions could be embarrassing for you. I want to be sure that everything is working fine on his end.”
The Fury and Cries of Women Page 14