for a while the fetching and carrying continued, nothing had
changed, the pot cooked all day long over the small flame, the laundry soaked in the tub. her mother scrubbed and scrubbed, as if there was some sense in that.
she left finally, after a few weeks or months, soon after, her mother
left too, went to the city and found work.
first she had gone to London.
there were men there who would pay her way, she was sure of that,
she had a look that they liked, like broken glass, she thought, a
frame filled with broken glass, it made her hard and soft at once,
shiny and dense, easy and dangerous.
she wanted to be an actress, she thought that would be best, to pretend, to pretend to be someone else, to look a certain way, this way or that, to be powerful yet hidden, someone but not herself.
she knew about men. she had seen her mother please her father,
anticipate his every wish, his every intention, her mother had done it
gracelessly, stupidly, never getting anything in return, a cold, hard
life full of senseless work, she had other ambitions, not to be her
mother, that was her ambition, never to be her mother.
she was in London, a warrior on a mission, never to be her mother. -
she watched other women, she saw how they dressed and how they
talked and how they kept silent, she watched them advance and
retreat, like dancers with measured, predetermined steps, this was
her first acting exercise, how to be this one or that one.
she watched men, what they liked, what pleased them, how they
smiled, what made them smile, how they drank, how they danced,
how their arms moved to claim a womans whole life, every breath
within her.
she learned to judge men without sentiment or desire, she learned
to see them as they would want to be seen, never herself being deceived. she learned what to do to claim the highest price, sometimes in money, sometimes in services, just as other nomads learned to live
off berries and weeds, find water holes, protect themselves from rain,
she learned to pick a meal out of a crowded room, to find a warm
bed in the faces on the street, to milk that male cow without mercy,
shame, or regret.
the first one had been a shopkeeper, nice dress in the window,
never show need, a quiet dress, modest, a dress that would let them
see whatever they wanted to see. a dress that would make no particular statement, set up no particular expectation, I am whatever you want me to be, the dress seemed to say.
she learned to empty her face of its intelligence, she learned to
empty her face of its past, poverty, grim, grueling poverty, drudgery,
murder, she learned to empty her face so that the man himself could
fill it in.
soon she had several dresses, a small, quiet room, and enough
money to take an acting class.
time passed in this way, man after man, year after year, man after
man, never for nothing, always for something, in this way she advanced herself, slowly, bit by bit.
it was true, the first time it did hurt, the shopkeeper had been
delighted at the blood, he had taken her again, biting and pum-
meling, more blood, he seemed to say, more blood.
his apartment was small and filled with things, she remembered
that it was filled with things as he entered her. her scream delighted
him. she was graceless, awkward, her body tough and tight, she
twisted and turned, her twisting and turning delighted him.
as soon as he was finished, he seemed to forget her. she felt lonely
and cold then, her body as if dead, covered with a cold white sheet,
she turned towards a window and watched the light coming up. this
was the saddest moment of her life.
she learned to use her vagina, to contract the muscles, to envelop
and squeeze the cock, she learned to whimper and to moan, she
learned to sweat and to cling, she learned to cry out. this was her second acting exercise,
she learned to kneel in front of the man and take his cock in her
mouth, she learned the postures of wantonness and abandon, she
learned the postures of fear and submission.
she learned to stay on her stomach as the man entered her ass. she
learned not to scream unless he expected it. she learned to bite his
arms or to bite her tongue, she learned never to ask for anything.
she became pregnant twice, the first time a nameless doctor had
stuffed her vagina with gauze and injected her with chemicals, he
had told her to go home and wait, not to drink, not to take pills, not
to call anyone for help.
she had waited for 2 days, thinking it would not happen, also
thinking she would die.
then the pain started, cramps in her gut, dreadful cramps, like being kicked in the belly over and over, she drank to ease the pain, the pain got worse and worse, feet kicking her in the belly, over and over,
endless, constant.
there was no one to call, would she die there, and still there was no
one to call, she tried to call the doctor, she dialed the number she
had been given, no answer, nothing, just feet kicking her in the belly,
her back almost broken from the pain.
contractions in her gut, she went to the bathroom, tried to get it
out, whatever it was, out, straining and straining, feet marching over
her and in her, Nazis, an army of Nazis, marching over her gut.
sweating, screaming, silent, standing or sitting or lying, straining
over the toilet, then it came out, in the toilet, a small, not human, not
anything, mass of membranes, like a lima bean, but all bloody, it
was something but what was it, nothing, nothing human, she looked
at it for a moment, repulsed, and then flushed the toilet.
the second time the doctor had come to her. an arranged signal, a
light bulb on and off 3 times in the window, he was very big, sloppy,
wore a hat. what would he do to her.
he spread newspaper on her bed. she lay, her back on the
newsprint, her legs hanging spread wide open over the edge of
the bed.
then, he began to scrape inside her. then, the pain, then, the searing, scaring, screeching pain, she must not yell, neighbors, police, she must not scream, no pills, no shot, scraping inside her, scraping
her inside out and outside in.
then, he took her legs, closed them, and lifted them onto the bed.
for a moment he stared at her, her face contorted in agony, her body
wanting to curl but not daring to move, would he, was he going to,
no, he turned to leave, then he was gone, what did he do to her,
would she die, and the pain, would it ever stop, and the bleeding,
would it ever stop, an army of Nazis inside her tramping tramping
goosestepping inside of her and all she could think of was, would
she die.
she had advanced herself, she had her own room now, filled with
things, quiet and dark, she had a closet full of dresses, enough for
any occasion a man would provide, she took more classes, in acting,
in voice, in movement,
the men were not nameless now, not shopkeepers either,
she had a good eye.
they were a different sort now, actors, writers, directors,
she knew how to move in, just enough,
she knew how to be there and to disappear at the same t
ime,
when to disappear.
her smile, always ready, a mask, enigmatic or reassuring, whatever
was necessary,
her ambition began to enlarge.
she had read books, enough of them, still, one was always open on
her night table, she was conversant with acting theory, she
discovered that she had an intelligence and a tongue, she could
speak clearly and strongly, but not too often, never at the wrong
time, never the wrong thing.
she began to develop her own persona, no longer a shapeless piece
of putty where each man could make his own mark, she began to
have a definite form, some opinions, a consistent though flexible
posture, a strong woman, they said, independent, they said, a
woman who didnt hang on.
her third acting exercise, never let her insides show,
it was a calculated strength, designed to appeal to a certain kind of
man. she had determined who needed what.
the one she loved was not the father of this child.
the one she loved, how did she see him, not as she saw and had
always seen the others, she didnt see him as he wanted to be seen,
never believing it herself, she believed it, anything he wanted her to
believe.
she saw a great man.
the one she loved was a consummate actor, a pretender, a
charlatan, a liar, and a cheat.
sensitive, she thought, a genius, delicate, not like other men. kind
and deep and searching, not like other men.
here it converged, her ambition and her longing, he had touched
her, deep, inside, forever.
she had come to New York wanting to meet this man or someone
just like him, someone with precisely those eyes, that stare, that intense focus, someone with that fame.
she had met him one winter when she was teaching voice, his climb
to the top had been ruthless and clever but not in the obvious way. he
was a deceiver, a manipulator, good at keeping things hidden, someone who always covered his tracks, a certain kind of animal, smelling what he needed and taking it, then covering up his tracks, not like
other men with a brutal sweep of the hand, no, not like that, instead
gently, quietly, effectively, finally,
he was a homosexual, or so he said.
their discussions were long and deep, about work in the theatre,
about the human voice, about pain, about suffering, about death.
they would sit in his almost empty apartment on straightbacked
chairs, hands just touching, he would pour wine and stare at her and
into her.
she did not forget everything, she remembered what she wanted,
she wanted this man to love her.
this was no ordinary man. he liked smart women, strong women,
women who could work and talk and think and earn money, he was
a collector of such women but that she did not know. I am the only
one, she thought, different from the rest, this man respects me, she
believed.
her heart went out to him. whatever she could do for him she did.
her work in voice became connected to his work in the theatre, she
taught his actors what he wanted them to know, those he did not
like, she eliminated from classes, those he was interested in, she
cultivated like flowers.
when he was sad or lonely, she would sit with him or lie with him.
when he was hungry, she would feed him or he would feed her.
nothing about this man was like other men. he would cook and
read poetry and speak only in the softest voice. I am the only one, she
thought, I am different, there is a place for me here,
and so she began to sleep with him and never made demands.
always, what he wanted, not what the others wanted, he did not tear
into her or delight in making her bleed.
sometimes they would eat together, and then she would go home,
sometimes he would read poetry, and then she would go home,
sometimes he would talk about his hard life of poverty and grief, and
how his mother had hated and betrayed him, and then she would go
home.
she did not notice that her life remained hidden from him. she did
not notice his cold indifference to her need to stay, or to talk about
her own grief and poverty, she told him nothing of her own mother,
or her murdered father, or the years of man after man and year after
year, she noticed only that he was different from the others and that
she was different from the others when she was with him.
then, he asked her to move in with him.
he took her hand tenderly and said that all his life he had wanted a
womans love and devotion, he said that they would be friends and
lovers, workers together on this project and that, he said that she was
not like other women, weak and dependent, and that he was not like
other men, arrogant and aggressive, he said that he would have his
own life and she would have hers, he said that he hoped she
understood that he was a homosexual and so he would continue to
have male lovers and of course they would each be free anyway to do
whatever they wanted, he said that he was a difficult person who had
had a hard life but that now he wanted to share his life, some of it,
with her. he warned her, over her protests, that he was a selfish person. he said that nothing much had worked out in his life with women and that he hoped this would be different now. he said that
he was willing to try if she was and on that heroic note, he stopped.
she moved in early the next morning, 3 suitcases of clothes and
assorted odds and ends, they had agreed that she would keep her
own apartment for a while, just in case her actual physical presence
did not really suit him. he said that they would not tell anyone quite
yet, in case it didnt work out.
the 3 suitcases seemed too final to him, so he sent her home again
and suggested that she return with just a few dresses that would not
cause much bother.
from the beginning she was determined to succeed, she made him
tea and coffee and tried to stay out of his way. to have no expectations, to make no demands, she smiled when she thought a smile would not be an intrusion and the rest of the time she practiced being self-sufficient, strong, independent, and marginally visible.
for 2 weeks they lived this way. in the day she taught and he had
appointments, she did not know who he saw or what they did. be an
ocean, she would tell her students, hands on their bellies as they
breathed in and out in waves, she would teach them how to breathe,
all the while unable to breathe herself, thoughts of where he was and
who he was with stuck in her chest.
she would arrive at his home at 6, in time for coffee or a drink,
then, he would go out. she did not know where, or with whom,
sometime after midnight he would return. I need to be alone, he
would say as he turned away from her on the bed or shut himself up
for hours in the bathroom, then, sometimes, he would roll on top of
her and bang away, then, he would sleep,
she had been asked not to answer the phone,
at the end of 2 weeks, he could not look at her anymore* his eyes
sought the floor, the walls, the plants, he had scheduled a meeting
with several theatr
e people for that afternoon, she was not invited, he
suggested to her that she take her clothes and leave, they had accumulated into a sloppy pile.
that night as she lay again in her own bed the tarantula was right by
her left shoulder, it seemed to rear itself up on one side and lunge
out at her, its hairy legs just brushing her shoulder, nothing was
there, she looked, she checked, she looked again, nothing was next
to her. but still it was there, right next to her, just beyond the edge of
her eye.
she did not remember when she had first seen it. her eyes had been
open, that was certain, they were open and still she saw it. it was in
front of her eyes, superimposed on everything she saw, or it was just
behind her and she seemed to see it out of the back of her head, if
she closed her eyes it would disappear for a moment then appear
again, vivid, clear, magnified a hundred times, sometimes it would
be on the edge of her vision, almost out of view, but not quite, as if its
shadow was falling over her face.
she would be in a room, she would see everything in the room as
surely it was, chairs, walls, radio, clock, television, books, all truly as
they were, but the tarantula would be there too, just behind her or
just to her side.
now, in bed, in grief, in her sorrow and shame, having been thrown
out, having failed, he did not love her, banished in shame, cut out,
told to leave, his eyes cold and indifferent, he could not look at her
anymore, he could not stand the sight of her, it was there again, over
her left shoulder, a chill went through her. she blinked, she stared,
she closed her eyes, still it was there.
the next months were cold and sweaty, filled with nightmares,
desperation, phone calls in the middle of the night just to hear his
cold cold voice.
she had known now for a while about his other women, women just
like her. how had God made so many women just like her. smart,
strong, killers every one. this one and that one. she hated them all,
all of them, she hated them and she hated anyone like them, anyone
who reminded her of them, any woman with ambition, she hated,
The New Womans Broken Heart Page 6