by Martha Bátiz
So that’s why I’m sitting here in this godawful detention centre surrounded by sand and shrubs. During the day the sun lashes at you with no mercy. I’m never sure in which direction I got to walk. Every single time I try to go across the border I get caught. They ask my name, lock me up in this room with others as desperate as me, and then send me back. They don’t let me explain anything.
I don’t wanta stay in their country. I see who smiles at us; who lets it show that we disgust them. Who doesn’t even want to look us in the eye. I see them – their teeth and beards and chins, hoping they’ll see me, too. Hoping they’ll listen. I stare at my güero again. Wanta beg him. But he don’t even look at me. All I’ve got left’s my own voice. And my boy’s tireless whispers. Before they lead us out and push us in the van I give my güero one last look. He don’t turn around. His hair’s messy. The shirt of his uniform is wrinkled. I hope they won’t catch me again. I hope I don’t hafta come here ever again. But just in case, I try to take everything in: the naked light bulbs, the bare, worn out walls, the smell of dry blood, sweat, and piss.
The woman with the baby lines up ahead of me. So does the guy with the bandaged head. The baby is not crying no more. My güero’s back is still turned to us. I wish I could explain to him that all I wanta do is bring my boy some water.
Water for my boy, güero, you see? That’s all I’m here for. To bring him water to calm his thirst.
Decalogue for a Doll Without a House
Facts: once upon a time there was a woman who decided she couldn’t be a mother anymore, so she went away and never came back. She left behind a broken home with broken children, and a doll that survived up until another unforgiving December night. Synopsis: a broken woman left behind a broken girl who became a woman with a broken doll. But that’s not the end. It’s the beginning. It was, at least, for me. And you, my niece, the only other female in this family, you need to know our side of the story so that one day you’ll be able to shape your own.
A few days after we got engaged, Albert and I were going back to Father’s house after visiting some of his friends. I had no friends of my own except for Isabella, but I had already stopped seeing her, so when we went out it was always to visit friends or colleagues of his. We found an organ grinder on the street who had a monkey standing on the instrument collecting coins from passersby with a hat. The monkey was wearing a pink jacket. It was cold, and I felt sorry for him. Norway is no country for monkeys. He was shivering. His eyes were sad, vacant almost, yet the tune he was playing was happy. The tarantella Mother danced for Father at our neighbours’ house the last Christmas we were together. I was little but I remember how graceful she was, how she smiled as she moved her hands and feet to the rhythm. The music was a stiletto in my stomach, it left me almost breathless. You will learn, as you grow older, that your body, your skin has a memory of its own. That memory is merciless.
I needed to escape the music.
“I’m not feeling well, can we go, please?”
“Don’t be silly, you were fine a second ago!” Albert replied, not even looking at me. He was making faces at the monkey who, in turn, wasn’t paying attention to him.
“Let’s keep on walking, can we?”
“Why walk when we can dance?” he said, taking me by the hand, bowing playfully, still trying to catch the monkey’s attention.
I didn’t want to dance. I was afraid I might throw up, so I pulled my hand away and turned my back against him in order to cover my mouth. He grabbed my arm so hard it hurt. When I raised my eyes I discovered that once again he was not looking at me. Not at the monkey, either. He was looking all around us, seeming to say, Did you see her reject me? Smiling through clenched teeth.
“Don’t you ever humiliate me in public,” he hissed, his mouth close to my ear, tobacco and whisky on his breath. It was a smell I usually liked, but not then. I tried to get him to loosen his grip on my arm, but his fingers sank deeper into my skin.
“You’re hurting me!” I complained in a low voice, trying not to attract anyone’s attention. That made him angrier. Two very well-dressed gentlemen walked past us, and gave a coin to the monkey. Then kept walking.
“Not more than you just hurt me,” he answered and dragged me away, never letting go of my arm until we arrived at Father’s house. I was trying hard not to cry because I sensed tears would make things worse. I wanted to explain to him how the music had made me feel, and why, but there was no chance. He didn’t let me talk.
“Now, you must think about your behaviour today, my dear, and promise to be better in the future.” He blew me a kiss before I closed the front door.
When I came in, Father and Anne Marie asked me how I was. I told them everything was fine and rushed to my bedroom. Albert had left a bruise on my arm, yet the pain I felt was beyond skin-deep.
The next day, Albert pretended nothing had happened. But I never forgot that chilly afternoon, and that monkey’s sadness. And I remembered the tarantella, its notes twirling in my mind – as if knitting a rope around my neck.
Too late, I realized that the monkey was an omen I should’ve heeded.
Truth number one: Omens can present themselves in a shape you least expect.
Stained by my Mother. That’s how I felt growing up. People said horrible things about her, horrible things Anne Marie denied and told me to disregard. I knew she was right, because in my mind Mother remained sweet and caring, not the heartless being she was made out to be after she’d left. Yet, I always felt that people looked at me and thought, Her mother was a monster who abandoned her poor husband. I wondered if my brothers, Ivar and Bobby – your dad and uncle – felt the same, but I never summoned the courage to ask them. Men know how to manage. Take Father: after Mother left, he became a special kind of victim. A hero, almost, because he was raising his children on his own. Not on his own, of course, but who would ever acknowledge Anne Marie? She was a nanny; paid help. Never mind that she was paid very little. Never mind that after Mother left there was no more music in our house, no more dancing; there were no more hidden chocolates and macaroons to be had as treats when Father wasn’t looking. I missed music the most, but I felt like crying when I thought about it. Then, time and silence eroded the memory. Or so I had believed.
Mother’s absence felt like a scar, and for years I thought it was there, across my face for everyone to despise. I was sure that everywhere I went people knew I had not been wanted enough, not loved enough, even though I had a beautiful doll whose mere existence seemed to contradict that feeling. Anne Marie told me that Father didn’t have much money back then. Mother had to work, too, to make ends meet. But the doll must have cost a little fortune and Mother still bought her for me, with a small cradle. Anne Marie told me that Mother was sure I’d “rip it to ribbons.” Those were Mother’s words, “rip it to ribbons.” What she was thinking when she paid for the doll? Father liked to say, “The way she spent money, it burned her hands.” He thought people who were careless with money were weak – and weak meant inferior. But now I know that Mother was actually the strongest of us all, because she broke free.
Truth number two: You have to be ready to look beyond the surface to discover what is evident but no one else wants to see.
Girls didn’t want to be my friends. They were afraid their mothers might leave them, too, as if leaving your family were a contagious disease. I spent most of my years at school all alone, in class and in the school’s courtyard. Until Isabella arrived. Long black hair, olive skin; an outcast, too. We understood we had only each other and quietly held hands, shared our secrets. But I don’t think we ever shared our pain. That came later.
My brothers got involved in brawls and fights but Father, instead of scolding them, encouraged them to “Man up!” and show their peers who was the strongest. That was how Ivar’s nose got forever crooked and how your uncle Bobby lost his front teeth – although he didn’t tell the real story to your aunt and I was forbidden to mention it. She probably still believe
s his golden teeth are a souvenir from his brief stint in the army.
Then Father introduced me to Albert, and he seemed to make me forget that pain. I was young, about to finish school, unsure about what to do with my life. I wanted a job, but Father frowned on the idea. Back then, women were not supposed to work outside their home. Would I be forced to remain in Father’s house forever, watching life go by? The thought scared me. Albert found me at a most vulnerable moment, and from the beginning I sensed that Father wanted him to rescue me, offer me a new, more comfortable life.
“Good morning, Miss Emmy,” he would greet me. “I brought you flowers so they could see what real beauty looks like.”
Isabella and I laughed at his compliments when we were alone, but when she told me to be careful, I couldn’t help but think she was probably a little jealous. Meanwhile, Albert’s smile and his perseverance slowly gained my trust. I felt safe and, for the first time, even strong. My Father began to shrink in my eye; Isabella, too. She wasn’t funny enough anymore; she wasn’t interesting enough anymore. Her round face, her plump figure, her dark hair became all too familiar.
“What’s going on with you? With us?” she asked one afternoon. I didn’t know how to reply. I didn’t know how to explain that I felt like I had outgrown her, outgrown the apartment where I had spent my entire life surrounded by Mother’s knick-knacks. I even felt like I had outgrown my family. I wondered if that was how Mother had felt?
When Albert proposed to me I considered myself the luckiest girl in the world.
“Jeg elsker deg,” he whispered softly in my ear, and all of a sudden norsk had never sounded sweeter. I believed him when he said he loved me, and thought I could learn to love him, too. I was certain I would never need anyone else. I was ready to be his wife, and bring my doll to our house so that when we had a baby daughter it could be hers. And she would know, because I would tell her, that this doll was the last present I had been given by her grandmother. We would play together.
Truth number three: Always distrust the things you like. They are a trap.
Soon it would be Christmas and Christmas had never been a merry time at home, really, though we were good at pretending. The celebration never again was as extravagant as it had been the last Christmas that Mother spent with us, when she got Ivar some new clothes and a sword, a trumpet and a horse for Bobby, and the doll and cradle for me. But the coming Christmas would be my first as a newlywed; my new life would begin. Albert convinced me that the perfect date for us to marry would be a day in mid-December: it would give me a reason to be cheerful in spite of the grey weather, the cold wind, the upcoming anniversary of Mother’s departure, and people’s insufferable seasonal joy.
After our engagement, Anne Marie was allowed to leave me alone with Albert in the sitting room whenever he came to visit, and he took those opportunities to hold me closer to him and begin teaching me about love. He was gentle at first. I enjoyed the taste of cigar in his mouth, the warm moist of his tongue. I couldn’t help but sigh and feel excited when it circled my ears. We were careful and quiet. He would put his hand on my dress and gently caress my breasts while we kissed, and although at first I rejected his advances, trying to behave modestly, as I knew Anne Marie and Father expected me to, I found it hard to stop him once he had begun. Albert was the kind of man who would not take no for an answer, so I had to come up with little games and excuses to get him off me. “Wait until you’re my husband,” I would say, smiling, acting like a teacher scolding a small child, to which he would always reply with an animal roar, and we laughed.
When the time came to choose a place to live, he bought it without telling me about it first. When I tried to protest, he was upset.
“But Emmy! How can you not be pleased? It’s a beautiful apartment, very modern and full of light, wait until you see it!”
I did love it. As I loved the curtains and the furniture he chose. Anne Marie’s only word of advice: “Do not go against your future husband’s wishes if you want to have a happy marriage.” I wanted a happy marriage so much that I pretended to love burgundy napkins I abhorred, the boring but apparently pricey eightteenth century painting with which Albert decorated our future dining-room, the golden cross with ivory incrustations he hung over what was to be our bed. I accepted it all gracefully, and counted my blessings.
I wanted to tell Isabella all about these things, and how I truly felt; I began to miss her, but how could I go back to her after abandoning our friendship? I wanted her to be my bridesmaid, but Albert picked his cousin, and I did not feel ready to have an argument. It was going to be a lovely wedding. We would be happy, as we were supposed to be, and that was that.
Truth number four: Never expect life to turn out a certain way. You’ll be disappointed.
The night before the wedding, everything changed. I was sitting by my bedroom window watching darkness enshroud the street. I set my gaze on silhouettes scurrying outside. They were probably trying to get out of the cold. I put my hand against the windowpane. It made me shiver. The temperature was surely going to fall even more; maybe it would snow. I dreaded snow. I dreaded everything white, especially that slab of laced ice, that trap hanging from my wardrobe’s door: my wedding dress.
Albert had had it made especially for me with lace brought all the way from Brussels. I complained about the cost, no need to invest so much money on something that was to be worn only once.
“My bride will only own the best,” he said. Father beamed when he heard Albert talk like that.
Father was frail: he couldn’t be expected to take care of me much longer. His job at the bank had consumed him; his old respiratory illness had returned. When I heard him cough, when I saw him walk with difficulty to the coat rack to reach for his coat and hat before leaving for the bank every morning, I knew that he was only waiting for me to marry so that he could retire and live at peace.
Mother never came back, never sent any letters. Ivar and Bobby did not like to talk about her. They pretended they didn’t remember how she used to play hide-and-seek with us, how she made funny voices and faces when reading us stories, how she loved dancing while she held us in her arms. I knew Anne Marie resented them for this. She had raised Mother, after all, and then she had raised us, but she had raised us because she had loved her so much in the first place. I haven’t forgotten the many nights I heard her weep as she dusted Mother’s belongings and turned our flat into a museum to her memory, a museum where her name was never spoken. After all her dedication to us, and to me in particular, dear old Anne Marie was surely relieved to finally see me off.
That is the reason why I simply could not find the strength to tell them what had happened to me that morning, while Father was still in the office and Anne Marie in the kitchen.
Albert came to visit me, like every day. He went to the sitting room with me, closed the door behind us, and hugged me. He started kissing the back of my neck, holding my waist with his hands. I dropped back my head and let him continue, trying to enjoy his embrace, thinking of what amusing excuse I would use to stop him, the day before our wedding. All of a sudden, he began to lift my dress. He had never done that before, never attempted to go so far. I froze. He turned me around so I would face him, and slipped his hand between my legs, pressing hard. I pushed him away.
“Don’t touch me like that,” I whispered so as not to alert Anne Marie while I tried to fix my dress.
He looked at me as if I was being unreasonable, sniffed his fingers and smiled.
“Surely you can’t resent my wanting to have a little taste of what will be mine tomorrow.”
I wanted to scream, slap his face.
“Tomorrow,” he said, “there will be no more no’s.”
Then he gave me a quick kiss on the cheek, brushed his hand against my breasts, and made his way out. Why had Albert suddenly behaved like that? I couldn’t understand it, and was so upset that I went to my room to wash my face, my hands, and my neck before Anne Marie had a chance to see me. I
wanted to wash him off my entire body. I could still feel his grip between my legs. I should have run to Isabella and asked her for help, but instead I threw up and, when Father came home in the afternoon, I acted as if nothing had happened.
“It’s normal to feel nervous the night before the wedding,” Anne Marie said that evening when she came into my room. Mother had been nervous as well, she told me. Mother had thrown up, too.
“Oh, my dear Emmy, you will be such a beautiful bride!” she exclaimed with a sigh as she fidgeted with the blinding-white crinoline before saying good night and leaving my room.
To calm myself down, I took the wedding dress and held it in my arms for a few moments. Then, for some reason I could not explain, I brought it to the window. I opened the glass pane and tossed it outside, on the empty road. I watched it fall like a gigantic, clumsy snowflake. The wind was blowing and I closed the window again so no sound would come in. Right away I knew I had to be quick, leave without looking back; I’d send letters later. I looked out the window and saw the fabric of my dress moving in the wind like the feathers of a dead bird.
All right, I didn’t do that. But I wanted to. I did spend the entire night awake, sitting by the window, wondering if I should leave. It was the thought of Father that made me stay. I could not do to him the same thing Mother had done. I had to stay.
Truth number five: Acting against your instinct can be the single greatest regret in your life.
The following morning I couldn’t even drink tea. I put on the white, expensive dress, and Father walked me to the altar. Albert’s cousin was my bridesmaid. Nothing was the way I had dreamed of when I was a little girl.
It was a cold December day. The sky was blue and the sun shone but gave off no warmth. I had secretly wished for there to be a storm, or at least for it to be cloudy. The palms of my hands were clammy and my knees were shaking. After Albert had said “I will,” it was my turn.