The First Wife

by Paulina Chiziane

  Women, women, women. Women of your salvation, women of your perdition. It was because of women that Tony embarked on this deceit. It’s because there are too many women that he choked on his own greed. He turned love into a suicide mission, like a samurai, a kamikaze, a naparama. Ever since he was small, he’s been taught that a man flies, without wings, but flies nevertheless. Ever since he was small, he’s been told he’s mighty, he’s the boss, he’s the master. But the moment he breaks a feather, he comes running back to his mother’s embrace.

  “Rami, I’ll spend this week here, I’ll be with you. You’ve gone through a lot with this whole business.”

  “I’m going to Levy’s house.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Over my dead body.”

  “You’ve already been a dead body, what’s the difference?”

  “You’re not going, I’ve already told you.”

  “I’m going to my mother’s.”

  Deep inside, I’m all confused, I don’t know whether I’m alive or dead, or whether I’ve just lost consciousness. My life is endless suicide. Always ready to die for some space in a home riven with lies and shame. I find solitude intimidating and I can’t see any road toward a new dawn opening up on the horizon. I gave birth to five little rabbits. In order to feed them, I need our daily carrot. I don’t have a vegetable garden. I’ve got women’s businesses, businesses as restricted as those selling chickens and ducks in the market on the corner. For these reasons, I’ve struck through my dreams with a red pen. I can’t leave here and wander at will at the mercy of lions on the prowl along the road. So I’m better off staying here, protected by this cracked roof. I’m better off under a roof with a gaping hole in it than having the sky as my ceiling.

  “Rami, get this straight, I’m not going to leave you.”

  “I’m the one who’s going to leave you.”

  That’s exactly what marriage is all about. Agreeing to snuff out your candle, so as to use your companion’s torch, while he decides the amount of light you should have, and at what time and on what occasions. In marriage, women’s hands are shells open on the sand of the seashore, begging for love, bread, salt, and soap. Marriage means mounting a throne of firewood and waiting for the fire to be lit. Marriage is romantic. For men, it produces honey and sweetness. It produces happiness and tenderness. For women, it produces tears, anguish, exile, and death. It produces a world of delusion like the one I’m experiencing at the moment.

  “Very well, Tony, I’ll stay. But you’ve got to resolve the issue with Eve. As first wife, I want and insist that she should be your sixth wife. She’s got to be rewarded in some way. I don’t know what you think, girls.”

  “Eve deserves her place, she proved herself to be a good companion in difficult times,” Mauá says. “She suffered the torment of a false widowhood along with the rest of us. She gave proof of the love she feels for you. And how she cried at your funeral!”

  “But how did she get involved in this business?”

  “We paid her a visit to demand our rights. It was the five of us who pampered and groomed you, so that she could appreciate you. It was the five of us who cooked you energy-giving dishes and potions so that she could enjoy the pleasure of your company. So that’s why we went and insisted she pay her quota as a widow. She paid, my God, how she paid!”

  “I don’t believe what I’m hearing.”

  “She used you. It’s only fair that she should share in any losses. That’s why we are of the opinion that she should be your new wife.”

  “Never. Even if I asked, she’d never accept.”

  “Have you ever proposed to her?”

  “No.”

  “Why?”

  “I haven’t got the courage.”

  “We understand why you’re shy. We’ll organize a delegation and see to everything.”

  “Please, no.”

  “Tony, Eve is a serious woman. An adult woman. A cultured woman. A woman who would be worthy of being your sixth wife. We’ve all been witness to this woman’s generosity. Oh, what she went through on account of us, poor soul! We don’t want to see her cast aside, we just can’t have that. If she accepts, she’s going to be your wife whether you like it or not. We’ll take care of everything.”

  “Have pity on me!”

  I feel terribly uncomfortable and my bones ache. It’s weariness. Sleepless nights spent lying on the hard ground of widowhood. I leave the meeting and go to the bathroom, where I sit on the toilet, my only piece of furniture. Outside, I hear the squeak of gates opening. Who is it? I get up and peep outside. It’s my rivals leaving, some of them disappointed, others more animated, but all of them astonished. They drag their feet as they walk, overcome by surprise.

  I feel very hot and take my headscarf off. I go to the mirror to see if there’s any sign of change in my baldness. I shut my eyes, scared of seeing my awful image. I open them again. They are completely tear-soaked. My flat mirror suddenly turns into a crystal ball, reflecting images, reflecting secrets. It predicts the future and reveals unseemly secrets. It asks me:

  “Who are you? I don’t recognize you.”

  I reply tearfully.

  “I’m the one who dreamed of being loved and ended up being despised. The one who dreamed of being protected and ended up being exchanged. It’s me, a married woman, who was violated as soon as her husband looked like being absent. I’m Rami.”

  “You’re not Rami. You’re the monster that society created.”

  I lean my face against the mirror and cry disconsolately. I regain my self-control and look in the mirror once again. The image in the mirror smiles. It sways and floats as light as foam. As light as a jaguar’s feline gait through the forests of the world. It’s my spirit unencumbered by social inhibitions. It’s my childhood dream, it’s my dream of being a woman. It’s me, in my inner world, running freely along life’s path.

  I gain courage and ask.

  “Dearest mirror, what do you think of me?”

  “Be at peace with yourself. There’s no woman in this world more beautiful than you.”

  “Dearest mirror, is there a woman in this world sadder than I?”

  “Yes. There are millions and millions throughout the world.”

  “Tell me, dear mirror. Is there a woman in this world more betrayed than I?”

  “All women are. Every single one! In love, all men are betrayers.”

  35

  I leave work and head toward the restaurant very near my shop. This week, I’m on my own, as Tony has left for other embraces. That’s why I’ve invited Lu for lunch, just the two of us. I want to get down to resuming a conversation we had previously, and which was interrupted. I’m the first to arrive at the restaurant and I choose a table for two. While I wait, I sip a glass of iced water.

  I look through the window. I see a woman parking an expensive-looking car. The woman takes off her sunglasses and I see it’s Lu, my God, it’s Lu. Whose car could it be?

  She comes in and sits down. She’s graceful as only she knows how.

  “You at the wheel of a car, Lu?”

  “I wanted to give you a surprise. My new car. It’s secondhand, but it’s my first car.”

  “It’s an emotional moment. We hug. We laugh. We cry. I can’t believe what my eyes are seeing. Lu’s making real financial strides.

  “Congratulations, Lu!” I say while we toast each other with glasses of water.

  “I’ve just got it. You’ll be the first to go for a drive with me.”

  We smile. We eat. We drink to each other’s health. I get to the point and begin the conversation.

  “My dear Lu, the reason I asked you to have lunch with me is an old conversation we had, before we became friends. After all the unpleasantness we’ve been through together, I ask myself sometimes: Why are you still here?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Vito.”

  “What about him?”

  �
�He loves you very much.”

  “So what?”

  “He wants to lead you to the altar and make you his wife. You turn your back on that bit of luck in order to wallow about in the filth of polygamy. What do you gain by being Tony’s third wife?”

  “Do you want me to marry him so that I can be like you?”

  “Like me?”

  “Yes, like you. Married, mistreated, a widow with a husband who’s still alive.”

  “I don’t understand you, Lu.”

  “Let me explain: For men, the first wife is the wife for duties, the second wife is for pleasure. The first wife is the one that’s given thorns, the second gets flowers. If a woman’s fate is to live in polygamy, I’ll never be the first. I want to be what I am now: the third. Pleasure and flowers.”

  “That’s why you entered my home as a parasite, isn’t it, Lu? To be a flower in my garden and cause the thorn to grow inside me? Tell me, Lu, why did you invade my home?”

  “It wasn’t I who invented the world. I only know that that’s how things are. When I entered your home, I wasn’t aware of who I was injuring. If you only knew the sleepless, remorseful nights I spent after I got to know you, if you only knew! Rami, you didn’t deserve such suffering. How could Tony cause a woman like you, Rami, so much anguish?”

  “You’re being unfair, Lu. And ungrateful.”

  “When you think about it, you suffer, I smile. You sowed the seeds, I reaped the harvest. I never knew what conjugal hardship was like. You bathe your husband, make him smell nice, while we second and third wives receive him all clean and perfumed. You maintain him and we use him and wear him out. Tony only comes to my arms to find happiness, and when the time comes, off he goes without leaving any problems in his wake. And he leaves you with all the chores: taking your mother-in-law for her doctor’s appointment, visiting his sick brother, attending all the social events in the name of the family, representing him at funerals, and so on, while I, the third wife, am free of everything, I look after my house and my body, and the only thing I have to prepare for is love.”

  I wasn’t expecting to hear this. Her words stir up old wounds and hurt like spurs. I fall into an epileptic fit and feel as if I’ve been struck down in the middle of some dance of death. Good God, she’s not lying. She’s my mirror showing me my portrait as a submissive woman in the cruelest possible way. I scold myself: Why did I provoke this conversation? Why didn’t I stick to my corner, hidden away in the peace and quiet of my silence?

  “Don’t assume I’m just trying to get rid of one more rival. Far from it. Lu, you are an elegant, extraordinary woman, how can you put up with this pigsty? You’re a classy lady worthy of a classy gentleman. You have such a man at your feet, but you prefer to make him your lover. Why?”

  We both remain silent, like two buffaloes during a pause in their fight. I drink a mouthful of water to calm me down. She rotates her glass on the table nervously. I look at her as she lowers her head. She is breathing deeply. I’d really like to get out of there, but I’m not going, because I want to get to the bottom of this story and follow it through to the end. I pluck up courage and go on the attack once more.

  “Answer me, Lu.”

  “Vito is like Tony, they’re both from the south, two Shangaan barbarians. I’d marry him and on the day he died, they’d shave my head, make me go through kutchinga, and pillage everything we had built up over the years. I really love Vito, but I swore to myself: I’ll never become the legal wife of a southern man.”

  I detect a flash of apprehension in Lu’s eyes. She leads her life along concealed paths in order to avoid pain. I understand her. It’s difficult to face the sea if you don’t have fins to help you fly through it. A woman is a mutilated fish in the depths of the oceans. I envy her ability to say no to pain and avoid the need for sacrifice.

  “Marrying Vito would mean having new rivals, who could be far worse than the ones I already have.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I have a husband for one week in four. While I wait, there’s always Vito to keep me company to relieve my boredom. You must understand that I’m made of flesh and can’t just eat rice.”

  “What are your feelings for them both?”

  “Tony looks after me, I respect him. Vito pleases me, I love him. They both complete me. If I was married to Vito, I would have lots of pleasure, love, and new rivals.”

  “Men aren’t all the same, Lu.”

  “Neither are women.”

  “You surprise me.”

  “Rami, we share a husband and a lover. Everything’s fine. What’s your problem? I feel part of this system. Why go looking for more pain?”

  I begin to admire this woman. The practical way she resolves life’s problems. Her sincerity. Her courage. She doesn’t worry about the scandalmongers. She’s mistress of her own destiny and does what she wants. She resists. Fights. Decides. Chooses. And she carves a bit of space for herself out of life. It may be a barren bit of space, but it’s hers. She knows how to choose the fertile soil where flowers will grow, perfumed and devoid of thorns. And she chooses the delicate hands that will go out and gather them: those that give pleasure and those that give care.

  “You’re a hard woman.”

  “A woman is trained to be as sensitive as a porcelain doll that shatters at the slightest fall. We are prepared for grace and delicacy, but men caress us with hands as hard as iron and break us with the slightest touch. They want us to be as soft and meek as threads of hair. But men cut them with the icy snip of steel scissors.”

  I’m astonished by the way she faces up to me, without fear of hurting me. I’m captivated by the way she fights for a bit of air. I fire a salvo of questions at her.

  “Lu, where did you learn to be so rebellious, where do you get that strength that enables you to defy the world? Where do you get that happiness that never dies? Those tears that are held back and never flow? Where does the heart of your strength lie, Lu?”

  “I obey God’s tenth commandment: Love your neighbor as you love yourself.”

  “Eh?”

  “Men are taught to love themselves first and only afterward their neighbor. Women are taught to love their neighbor but never to love themselves. I love myself and after that, others, just like men do.”

  “But you’re a woman, Lu.”

  “A woman and one of God’s daughters. With a right to happiness.”

  “You’re supposed to be obedient!”

  “You’ve observed the rules of obedience your whole life. And what have you gained from it? A crown of thorns on your widow’s throne. You were a lamb, burned as a sacrifice. Rami, you were a butterfly in flight, a piece of honey whose purpose was to sweeten life. You never harmed anyone, Rami, how can they harm you?”

  “Forget the past, Lu.”

  Lu’s words are magical. They shred my clothes, item by item. They’re caustic. They shred my skin, cell by cell, until they penetrate my breast. Instead of a heart, they find a blackened tunnel. They light a candle and extract from it the causes of my pain: knives, stones, barbs. Poisons. Harmful herbs. As if they were a shaman, they remove the syringe I use to inject myself with the denial of my own existence. I close my eyes, from where tears flow, with a sudden burst of relief. I sigh.

  “Rami, you are a mother, you are life’s center, you are existence itself. How do men dare to torture the womb of their own mother?”

  I answer without words. I’ve had enough. The world is topsy-turvy, everything has been inverted. The creator made man and woman to live together in one single bundle, neither one of them worth anything without the other. Two sides of the same face. Bread and tidbits for the same meal. Where sky and earth kiss on the horizon. Sun and moon at the same tender moment. Fire and water at the same boiling point. We need to regain our innocence and become children again. To be limpid like the waters along the shore. We need to reflect each other like faces in the mirror. We need to jump the ring of fire, to be once again sperm and ovum, to inva
de the fertile womb and embark on creation’s dance.

  “Ah, Rami, you have the hands of an enchantress. Everything you touch turns to gold.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You gave me supreme love. You forgave me my misdemeanors. You gave a slice of your man, whom we share like sisters. You generated love where there was only hatred, Rami, your strength is endless, you can transform the world.”

  I imagine the world, the universe. The landscape on Mars, the moon, and Venus. Saturn’s rings. I imagine all its horrors and all its wonders.

  “Ah, Lu, you’re a dreamer. The world is a colossal ball traveling through the cosmos. The world is a creator. One single creature cannot transform its creator. The world is far bigger than me.”

  “With your own hands you transformed our world, Rami, isn’t that so? You tamed the wild animals that dwelt in our souls. Before you came along, the war was a fierce one. We were bitches let loose in the dump waging war on each other over that old bone, Tony. We were wandering, characterless stars. You gave us our sparkle back when you bathed us with the breath of your soul. You forsook a bit of your flame in order to light our candles. We are the wives of a polygamist, we are socially acknowledged, no one looks at us as if we were single mothers, in spite of all our sorrows. Our children have the right to a father and an identity. As for ourselves, we have business concerns, our own lives, dreams, and a roof over our heads. We don’t have to stretch out our hand to beg for salt and soap. We have security, even if our ex–dead man were to die.”

  Now I understand. The world is this piece of ground upon which my feet tread. It’s this chair where I sit down. It’s the affection I give, it’s the flower I’m given. The world is my mirror, my bedroom, my dream. The world is my womb. The world is me. The world is within me.

  “There are marvelous things in what you have built, Rami. Tony is a collector of women, but you are a collector of anguished souls, a collector of sentiments. You’ve gathered around you women who have been loved and who have been scorned. You’re brave, Rami. You’ve sown love where hatred reigned before. You’re a limitless source of power. You’ve transformed the world. Our world.”