The First Wife

by Paulina Chiziane

  “You’re not going anywhere.”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “You’ll go to that tyrant’s house over my dead body. If you were going to your mother’s house, now that I could allow.”

  “They gave us thirty days to leave this house, what do you want me to do?”

  “Rami!”

  “You’re a dead man, Tony, can’t you see?”

  “I’m going to get everything back, Rami, right down to the last speck of dust. I’m going to get back to work. I’m going to look after you. There’s no need for you to wander through the world like a lost soul, certainly not.”

  “I’m not interested in anything, and that includes you, the house, everything. In each room, I see the image of your death. I don’t want to return to this life. I’m going to start all over again. My hair’s gone white, but my spirit is strong. I’m going to start again.”

  “Forgive me.”

  “Don’t ask me for forgiveness. Ask God and yourself. I’m nothing. I want you to get on well with your wives, lovers, concubines. I wish you all the women in the world, except me. I wish you happiness!”

  He blocks my way to stop me leaving. I push him. If it weren’t for the fact I’m so tired and weak, I’d give him a good thrashing, and make him pay for everything, an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. Even so, I manage to slap him good and hard. He doesn’t react. I grab my bags, ready to go. He seizes my bags, and tries to tear them from my hands. We fight over them.

  “You’re not going anywhere.”

  “I am.”

  We wage a tempestuous war, and whirl around in the dance of our fury. Our eldest son hears our cries and comes to help me. We stop fighting. He doesn’t say anything, just looks at us. He looks at us and weeps.

  The doorbell rings.

  34

  A man’s presence changes the course of everything. A man’s birth has greater value than that of a woman. Tony has come back, bearing a handful of thorns by way of a gift.

  My rivals arrive, one by one. They’ve come to see for themselves this man who constructs in order to destroy. Who sows flowers in order to kill them later. They attempt to put their pain behind them, they have taken off their mourning clothes and have donned flowery colors. They are all wearing fresh, brightly colored clothes from Lu’s shop. Their dresses, with hemline slits on the side and daring necklines, freshen their bodies like open windows. Their hair has been carefully coiffured, and their perfume and makeup are from Mauá’s shop. They all smell nice, all of them except for me, burning hotly inside these black clothes of mine. They each choose somewhere to sit down on the floor, and we form a circle as if we were having a picnic. Tony sits, perched on his crate, in the midst of the women who surround him, as if he’s a birthday cake. He’s shaking, he feels awkward. One can see the anguish he feels at his return, stamped all over his physique. Why is he suffering? Is it for himself or for us? What does he have to say to us?

  “Welcome home, Tony,” says Saly, to break the silence.

  He hides his head, his facial expression full of shame.

  “Did you have a good journey?”

  Tony attempts a word of greeting. He pauses and then sobs as if he had a frog stuck in his throat.

  “Ah, darling Tony, fisherman of love,” I burst out, “this time you cast your net into the sea of grisly love. You ended up caught yourself, fished up on the devil’s fishhook. Over on this side, you were in the earth’s mouth, while over there, you were in that woman Gaby’s mouth.”

  Lu reacts nervously.

  “So you didn’t die after all, Tony? Where were you, who were you with? Tony, tell us the truth. Tell us whether we’re in control of our senses. Tell us we’re not going mad. Tony, can we pinch you and make you cry to prove you’re real?”

  Lu, Mauá, and Saly get up, approach Tony, and carry out the antiphantom test. They pinch him until he says ouch and sheds one or two tears, upon which they exclaim: It’s really him, he’s got flesh and bones, he even felt pain, groaned and wept.

  “I want to ask you for forgiveness,” he says hoarsely and in between his tears. “I don’t know how all this happened. Men make mistakes too. Making mistakes is human.”

  “He who loves doesn’t make mistakes. If you do something for love, you make sure it’s done well,” Lu says.

  “Forgive me for all the suffering I’ve caused you, forgive me.”

  “You’re asking for forgiveness?” Mauá asks in a tired voice. “Oh, Tony! You left a fuse in a pile of hay. Your passion burned the world to a cinder with its blazing fire. We are the remains of this, we are ashes, the ruins left behind by your passionate love.”

  The atmosphere is dense. There’s expectation. He’s unable to utter any grand words, but feels the intense pain from his gaping wound. I feel very sorry for him at this moment. He makes a supreme effort and gets rid of everything that’s on his mind. What he says is wonderful.

  “I scaled the heights of forbidden paradises and was assumed dead. I stamped my face on the world’s shame.”

  He doesn’t speak. He murmurs and his voice sounds sweet and melodic like the rustling of the pines. He explains himself, justifies himself, with truths, lies, and promises. He scatters into the air perfumed words that flutter like petals.

  “I ask for your forgiveness, my dear wives, forgive me.”

  Tony kneels at our feet in humiliation. We are five queens on thrones of sand. Life has placed me above the ground.

  “I want everything to return to how it was before. I’ll never betray you again, I promise. I shall observe the weekly rota strictly.”

  “Tony, shut that mouth of yours,” Saly orders, furiously. “You were the cause of all the suffering we went through. Why did you come back? Why didn’t you stay dead, there where your family wanted to keep you? Why didn’t you stay in your European paradise, with that saint who fired up your heart with love, who made you forget everything and took you with her to the stars? And now you want us to forgive you? Shut up, Tony, go to hell, you’re dead. Don’t come and talk to us about love, because all your life was about falseness, malice, and the very antithesis of love.”

  “Your family did what it liked with us, because we don’t exist,” I shout.

  “We were rocks, walls, thin air. They cast us into the fire and banished us from our homes as if they were chasing away demons. And while this was going on, you were all smiles with that Gaby woman, on your honeymoon,” Lu says.

  “In the hands of your sacred family, we were cashew nuts on the charcoal brazier, we were grilled fish, with vinegar and pepper. And while this was happening, you were enjoying springtime in France with that woman Gaby,” exclaims Mauá.

  “Rami was tattooed with a red-hot iron. Branded like a slave. Expelled from her home with fire and incense, as if she were a demon. While that was going on, you were all smiles on your honeymoon with that Gaby,” Saly screams.

  “Rami went through kutchinga, my God, she was well and truly kutchingered, did she tell you? She was like a sheep being sacrificed. She endured kutchinga like a little orphan girl, lost in the middle of the world. It was painful, wasn’t it, Rami?”

  I lower my head, embarrassed. It wasn’t painful, it was delicious. I was kutchingered, but at the same time I was loved. The man responsible violated my body, but left the trace of a caress in my heart. It was necessary for Tony to be given up for dead for me to discover that love has other hues and other tastes. I prayed a lot, I prayed Tony wouldn’t return from the dead, because I’m getting my share of love. Now, at this very moment, I renew my prayer. Ah, dear God, why does bitterness fill life’s entire path, while the good things don’t even fill a spoon?

  “They gave us food for widows. Badly boiled greens with no salt. They fed us little so as to increase our pain and hunger, a kind of fast and flagellation especially for widows. A widow who fills her belly falls asleep and doesn’t cry as she should,” Lu explains. “While this was happening, you were talking away in French, in a French re
staurant, drinking French wine and eating French cheese with that Gaby.”

  “We went through every type of tribulation and were labeled widowed witches. While you were visiting the Arc de Triomphe, the Eiffel Tower, the Louvre, Notre-Dame, next to that Gaby woman,” I pitch in.

  “We were given vinegar, thorns, dagger thrusts, insults, fires, while you offered that Gaby French flowers,” Mauá says in a tragic tone of voice.

  “You made us bathe in a pool full of shit. And while this was happening, you were bathing in a French spa, with French soap, French perfume, with that Gaby woman,” Lu chips in once more.

  We have said everything. We have screamed everything. We’ve spat out all the resentment borne in our hearts, until our voices became hoarse. He listens in silence and replies with two tears. And he waits, impassive, while we bellow at the wind to extinguish the flames that burn our souls, sorcerers of our own selves. But he isn’t frightened and doesn’t quiver at the violence of our shouts, because women’s voices don’t reach the skies. He gazes at the horizon. He seeks inspiration. And he feels he’s growing eagle’s wings to fly into the loftiest branches of the horizon. He reassumes his perch and issues his command.

  “Don’t be like this, girls, life’s blanket is woven with threads of love and forgiveness. Here I am, I’m at your mercy. Crucify me on a cross of stone, tattoo my back with whiplashes and branding irons, girls, come, please avenge yourselves, but please, I beg you: forgive me.”

  Tony is making a strategic withdrawal. He’s hoisting the white flag, like a man laying down his arms and appealing for clemency. He personifies Samson succumbing fearfully before the power of a thousand angry Delilahs. His performance is masterly. He speaks in a low voice, but with a gentle fever. And he asks forgiveness for all his sins. He holds out his hand and volunteers for a session lashed to the whipping post.

  “Before all this, I had a divorce hanging over me,” I remind him. “I want to sign the papers now.”

  “But you told me you didn’t want one, Rami.”

  “I want it now!”

  “Forgive me, Rami. Wipe away the hurt.”

  “I went through kutchinga, remember?”

  “As your husband, I’ve wiped away that hurt just as the waves wash away footprints by the seashore. As far as I’m concerned, nothing happened. Do the same as me, Rami.”

  “I want a divorce!”

  Ju smiles every time I mention divorce. She’s the ideal woman. She’s as quiet as the tomb and says yes to everything in bold letters. She welcomes fire and brimstone without so much as a yell. She’s waiting for me to die so she can be led to the altar and say yes to my Tony. What she doesn’t know is that I’ll die long after she does. She’ll be able to marry Tony in some other life, but not this one. If there is such a thing as marriage in another life, I’d rather marry another man rather than this numb-skinned creature.

  “Tony, tell us the truth: Who were those beauties who were crying more than we, your widows, on the day of the funeral, and who then deposited the most beautiful flowers in the world on your grave?” Mauá asks.

  “How should I know if I wasn’t even there?”

  “Of all of them, one stood out, dressed in gorgeous black satin and lace, and crying so much she fainted. Who was it, Tony?”

  “I’ve already said, I don’t know.”

  “We’ll find out, never you mind.”

  “Ah, Tony, my living-dead one, how you were mourned, dear God! The messages of grief read by your graveside were so beautiful. Every one of them had extraordinary things to say. They all spoke of the work you left behind, as if you’d done any. They all praised you incredibly, and all your stupidity was forgotten.”

  There’s a new pause. Bits of evidence emerge one by one. Tony doesn’t have an answer for everything, he’s like a mouse caught in a trap. He replies here and there, like a sieve trying to block out the sunlight. Truth and untruth are extracted from his heart like hairs yanked out by two fingers. There’s a smell of blood in the air. There’s a smell of lies and hypocrisy. There’s a smell of anguish. There’s a smell of salt-laden tears.

  “Tony, what would have become of us if you’d really died?” Lu asks in a distressed voice. “Have you seen what your sacred family did to us?”

  “You people from the south are tyrants,” Mauá says, “you strip widows of everything like hyenas. You flaunt your political power right there at the funeral. The dead man can’t be lowered into the earth until the relative who’s a minister arrives.”

  “They’re worse than tyrants. They’re murderers,” Saly complains, “I had to defend the welfare of my children by hook and by crook against those assailants with their invocations to tradition. They invaded my house as if I were a thief. But I gave as good as I got. I gave one of your aunts such a violent punch that she’ll feel the effects for the rest of her life. If she ever tries to lay a hand on me again, it’ll be the end of her.”

  “That family of yours is all theater,” Lu declares. “First, they pray and sing. Then they start howling and weeping hideously, and do some high kicks to work up an appetite. After that, they eat toast and butter, black tea with white sugar and condensed milk, roast chicken and salad, and then they drink beer.”

  “Their stomachs are garbage bags, Tony,” says Mauá, returning to the fray, “their mouths are chewing machines. I now understand why these southern women have such big butts. They eat too much! Who paid for all this? We did! And to cap it all, they insulted us and bitched at us. Tony, give us back all the money we spent to feed that rabble that spent its time sobbing and eating.”

  “Up in the north, things aren’t like that,” Saly concludes. “For us, death is a dignified affair. Death is solemn and serious. Unfortunately, you southerners are spreading your curse through the whole country, and there are now northerners who make a point of displaying their economic and political power every time there’s a death. They carry with them all the symbols of their power to funerals: military uniform, flags, medals of rank, bottles of mineral water, cell phones, academic diplomas, luxury cars.”

  In this war of love and hatred, we’re not on an equal footing. A woman is inferior, lower, her pride can be shattered with a mere puff of breath. In this game, we’re five against one, but he’s strong, he’s got power and money. That’s why he’s saying he’s sorry, but he also dictates the rules of the game. He asks for forgiveness only in order to calm the waters and reassume control. Our only recourse is complaint. If you don’t cry, you don’t reap.

  “We have no protection. There was nothing left except for the little business concerns, which were all Rami’s ideas. And these were bound to go under because they ran the risk of being confiscated. Your seventeen children would have been condemned to living in penury, Tony.”

  He’s scared stiff of losing everything and dying again. He makes concessions.

  “I’m going to pay all the bills and put everything back in order. I’m going to leave a written will. This type of shameful situation will never happen again.”

  “We closed our businesses for a week,” Lu returns to battle. “We had expenses, we lost money. Who’s going to pay for all this?”

  “Go back to work immediately,” he says, half nervously. “Make up for all the time you’ve lost and let’s put an end to this sad episode.”

  The distance between a man and a woman is considerable. A woman bears the burden of thorns because she’s weak. A man flies airily aloft, free of thorns and pain, because he’s strong. Here, in this room, strength and weakness are breaking through their borders and revealing themselves, hand in hand, in the circle of sunlight and shadow.

  “Shall we go back to our conjugal rota again? Where should I begin? Rami, you always administered these things. Tell me anything you like, and I’ll comply.”

  “Before we start on all that,” says Saly in a threatening tone, “return everything to Rami, everything! But it’s all got to be new. There’s no question of bringing back the furniture that�
�s now been sullied by your murderous relatives. Return everything to her within a week.”

  “Yes, of course, I promise. Rami, go to the shops and buy whatever you need and like.”

  “And there’s another thing,” Lu promises, “if you don’t stick to your word, we’ll cut off your nose and one of that woman Gaby’s ears.”

  “Tony, don’t come looking for me before you’ve put Rami’s house back in order,” Mauá fires.

  Tony is now appealing for unity. We are drifting between nightmare and reality. What we feel can’t be expressed in mere words.

  “Tony, I’m willing to organize your rota,” I explain, “but in your new rota, there are two missing: Eve and Gaby.”

  “Ah! Not them. They’re just friends. There’s nothing between us. I don’t want them included.”

  I’m suddenly overcome by a sadness without bounds. What is a woman in this life unless she’s just a blanket to keep his feet warm on cold nights? What’s woman’s fate unless it’s to bear children, pains, and fears? Who is Eve to Tony in his life? A mere fruit for a bird to peck at as it flies through the skies. And Gaby? A freshly caught fish. After she’s been salted, baked, and consumed, she’ll be in an even worse predicament than we are.

  “Ah, my precious Tony, you’ve got a real gift for rooting out fantastic women. Where did you get Eve?” I ask. “During the week of the funeral preparations, Eve’s help was invaluable. The dead man’s coffin was bought with her money. Your people stuffed themselves with the food she brought us. Grief drew us together, Tony. For someone who already has five wives, what difference does one more make? As for Gaby, morally, she’s the author of this whole complicated story. And now that things are as they are, why do you say you don’t want anything to do with them? Have you come back in order to start deceiving us again?”

  “Please understand, Rami, it was just a fling, nothing more.”

  “You love Gaby.”

  “No, I don’t love her.”

  “Yes, you do. It was your love for her that got you lost out there on life’s trails. It was love that raised you up into the clouds to the point where you were presumed to be dead, because only the dead reach the lofty heavens.”