Obsession

by Florencia Bonelli

  “Hey, Mat!” Juana broke the spell, kneeling on her seat and appearing above her backrest like a puppet. “Here, put on a little Organza. I got the salesgirl to give me a free sample.”

  Al-Saud knew Organza; Céline used it. It was a voluptuous fragrance, a combination of flowers and vanilla. Still, he wanted “Mat” to keep on smelling like she did. She granted his wish.

  “No, thanks, Juani. I’ve got some perfume on.”

  “Oh, yes, your Upa la-lá for babies. God forbid that one of the best perfumes on the market ruin Upa la-lá.”

  Eliah covered his mouth so as not to let the laugh that bubbled up in his throat escape.

  “I like it,” “Mat” replied mildly; she spoke in a very soft voice. “Anyway, children…”

  “Don’t say children, Mat. It makes you sound like you’re from the last century. Say kids.”

  Juana had recently learned the meaning of the word anachronism, and since then she had used it to define her childhood friend. “You’re a living anachronism, darling Matita,” she would repeat every time Matilde uttered an outdated word. She never cursed or used contemporary slang words; she never spoke in lunfardo, the slang used in Buenos Aires—it was a major event when she deigned to use informal rather than formal forms. In Juana’s opinion she dressed like an Amish person, and, just like the Amish, she knew how to make homemade jams, candy and pickles, to knit (classic and crochet) and sew, and she had just recently started to learn the art of decoupage. It was hardly her fault. Born in a fifty-room mansion, attended by dozens of servants and educated by her grandmother Celia, a Córdobese version of the evil Miss Rottenmeier from Heidi, “poor” little Mat hadn’t had much chance to be normal. What confused Juana was that Matilde’s older sisters, Dolores and Celia, who had been victims of the same educational regimen, were as far from being described as Amish as the Earth was from being mistaken for Pluto.

  “Fine,” Matilde acquiesced. “Kids find this scent more palatable than a French perfume.”

  The flight attendant passed down the aisle, handing out little toiletry cases. Al-Saud refused his with a wave of his hand.

  “Look, Mat! It’s divine. So many little goodies…and you didn’t want to accept the upgrade your dad offered us!”

  “I would have preferred it if you hadn’t insisted, Juani. I didn’t want to accept it.”

  “Oh, yeah? The lady didn’t want to accept it, hmm? Well, I don’t know how you would have fit your enormous ass in a tiny little coach seat.”

  Matilde lifted her head slowly and stared fixedly at her friend without blinking.

  “Juana,” she said, in a lethal whisper.

  “Matilde?” The other shot back phlegmatically.

  Matilde! What a beautiful name. It suited her well.

  “Don’t worry about the stud. He doesn’t understand a word.”

  “Juana, there is the possibility, however remote, that the gentlemen understands Spanish.”

  “Mat, the Frogs are like the English pirates. They only speak their language. Did you see he’s wearing a Rolex?” As she pronounced the word Rolex, she put her hand over the right corner of her mouth and lowered her voice. “I think it’s a Submariner, the one with gold and stainless steel, a blue face and beveled edges. I love that model. I love the strap, the Oyster. I’d never seen one in real life before.”

  As with perfumes, Juana was fascinated by the world of watches and knew all the famous names—Rolex, Breitling, Cartier—and other, more exclusive brands, like Breguet, Blancpain and Louis Moinet.

  “I hadn’t noticed,” Matilde admitted.

  “Obviously! As though you would notice something like that, tarantula.”

  “Don’t call me tarantula.”

  “You don’t like Gómez’s nickname for you? When he called you Treasure Chest Martínez, I almost pissed myself laughing.”

  “I, on the other hand, had to put up with them all through high school.”

  “Poor Gómez had no idea how to get your attention. That’s why he put so much emphasis on your attributes, front and rear. Oh, Mat!” she exclaimed, putting her hands over her mouth. “I think the Frog might know Spanish after all. He’s laughing. Hey!” Juana complained. “Why didn’t you let on that you understood us? You’ve been sitting there all innocently.”

  Eliah let out the giggle that he had been suppressing for the last few minutes. If his friends or family had seen him at that moment, they would have been left openmouthed. He stopped as soon as he saw that Matilde was looking at him again.

  “Forgive her, sir. She’s very crude.”

  “Not at all. She made me laugh and that’s a good thing. Maybe if I let the little lady see my Submariner,” he offered, unfastening the strap, “she’ll find it in her heart to forgive me.”

  “Oh!” It was the only thing that Juana was able to say, taking the watch with an ecstatic look on her face. “What an amazing watch!” she said, after checking that it was an original; the second hand rotated smoothly and not in little jumps. “It’s heavy, solid. This is the first time I’ve held a Rolex in my hands. Thank you!”

  “Would you like to see it too?”

  “No way!” Juana interrupted. “She doesn’t know how to appreciate the finer things in life. Look at her watch! A trashy quartz rubber one she won at McDonald’s that makes her late for everything.”

  “Juana, I don’t think the gentleman is interested in my watch.”

  “I’m interested,” Eliah assured her, leaning over to demonstrate his interest.

  Juana, seeing how the Frenchman was acting, spread her lips into a smile.

  “How is it that you speak Spanish so well? You’ve got a bit of an accent, but otherwise you speak it well.”

  “My mother is Argentinean.”

  The captain announced that takeoff would be soon. The flight attendants closed the door.

  “Six-A is still free,” Matilde announced. “We can sit together.”

  Eliah and Juana exchanged a fleeting glance.

  “Don’t even think about it, tarantula. I wanna stretch out over both seats.”

  “But you can’t lift the armrests,” Matilde objected, showing her.

  “I couldn’t care less. I’m going to bend my knees. Stop bugging me,” she concluded as she returned the Rolex. “What’s your name?”

  “Eliah.”

  “Eliah, you already know ours, I imagine.”

  “Yes,” Matilde noted, “and he knows my nicknames too.”

  He laughed again.

  Peace resumed when Juana went back to her seat. She’s like an earthquake, Eliah thought. He liked Juana, especially because her cheek and audacity seemed to bring Matilde out of her shell rather than overshadowing her. The two of them made a nice pair, and it was obvious that they were very fond of each other, though quite different. He thought about his childhood friends. They had also been a diverse group: Shiloah and Gérard Moses were Jewish; Shariar, Alamán and himself were the sons of a Saudi prince; while Anuar and Sabir Al-Muzara were Palestinian. They had loved each other in spite of their different backgrounds and the differences that separated them, in part thanks to the innocence of childhood that sheltered them from hatred; however, the cloud of blissful ignorance eventually faded away and harsh reality intruded. Now some were still friends; others were mortal enemies.

  He realized that while he had been thinking about his friends, he still hadn’t taken his eyes off Matilde’s profile. She was engrossed in her book. He noted the curve of her forehead, wide, pale and smooth as a baby’s; she didn’t wear makeup, which made the effect even more astonishing. His skin was coarse and his chin always bore the shadow of stubble, regardless of whether he shaved in the morning. By early afternoon he always looked a little unkempt.

  The fluttering of Matilde’s eyelashes soothed him. He studied them with the same level of attention that every one of her features seemed to elicit from him. Though long and curved, they were almost transparent. With her head down and her eyelids ha
lf-closed, Matilde’s eyes were concealed, and he couldn’t decide if he had imagined the silver irises. It made him nervous to face her head-on, with her attention fixed on him, but he had to admit that her indifference was starting to bother him. What did he want from this girl? She must be barely twenty years old, if that. I’m bored, he concluded, even though he had a report to analyze and a meeting to prepare.

  The corners of Matilde’s mouth twitched. Something in the book had made her smile. Al-Saud tilted his head to see its title, and then smiled himself. She was reading Rendezvous in Paris.

  “What do you think, Matilde? Is it a good book?”

  With her head tilted to the left, she looked him in the eyes, blinked two or three times, and pursed her lips. As impossible as it might seem, they really are silver, Eliah decided.

  “I think it’s the best I’ve read in years.”

  As he saw that she was more than halfway through, he asked, “What do you think of the Étienne character?”

  “Oh, have you read it?”

  Eliah nodded but decided against mentioning that he had read the manuscript.

  “Why do you ask about Étienne?”

  “I identify with him.”

  “I think Étienne is the person Salem loves and respects the most.”

  “And you, what do you think of Étienne?” he insisted.

  “I admire him as well. He’s intrepid and intelligent, but not too proud.”

  “And as a woman, what do you think of him?”

  She frowned, confused. “Well…as a woman I would say that he scares me.”

  “Scares you?”

  “Based on what happens in the plot, he’s incapable of commitment. His soul is never at rest. No place is his place. No woman, his woman, except the one he lost as a young man. He’s restless, he needs to keep moving, as though nothing were ever enough. I’m amazed by his ability to deal with so many different things at the same time, as if he can compartmentalize his brain.”

  The captain announced that takeoff was delayed due to traffic on the runway.

  “But as a woman you fear him.”

  “Yes, I would fear him. Nothing is ever enough for Étienne, no place, no woman. He’s volatile, unpredictable. The world is too small for him.”

  Good conclusion, Eliah reflected, suggesting, “Maybe it’s because he hasn’t found the love of his life. Wherever she is, that will be Étienne’s place.”

  Don’t look at me like that or I’ll kiss you right here and now.

  Matilde looked away, confused by the brief conversation. Moreover, she couldn’t bear the intensity of those green eyes; they were a creamy emerald green. She hated stupid comparisons but really, they reminded her of the emerald on her mother’s ring. This man’s image was stuck in her head, and as much as she pretended he wasn’t there, she could feel him as she would a blast of hot air from an oven.

  The Boeing 777 taxied down the runway and the engines’ rumble disconcerted Matilde. It was only the second time she had ever been on a plane. The first had been more than fifteen years before, when she was only eleven and they were still wealthy. Her parents had sent her to study English on a summer course organized by the aristocratic school of Eton, in Berkshire, England. She didn’t remember her stomach clenching like this then.

  True to his pilot’s nature, Eliah watched the runway as the Boeing struggled into the air. It felt strange to him not to be in the cockpit, in charge of the controls. But generally, unless he had a lot of work to do, he would take off and land his planes, leaving the rest of the trip in Paloméro’s hands. The Boeing left the asphalt and climbed upward. Eliah waited for the bump that indicated that the landing gear had been stowed away. In his opinion, the pilot wasn’t particularly skilled. Failing to anticipate a sudden lull in the wind, he had just lost altitude—about three hundred feet, by his reckoning—which would turn some of the passengers’ stomachs.

  “Juana.”

  Eliah turned back to look at Matilde. The name had been uttered in a barely audible gasp. Matilde was as pale as a cadaver and her lips had turned ashen. Her hands revealed how tense she was; one was clutching the spine of the book and the other was wrapped tight around an armrest. Her knuckles had started to turn white while her eyes were shut tight. He leaned toward her and whispered, “Don’t worry. I’ll get you through this.”

  Although the fasten seat belt light was still on, Eliah unbuckled his own and took the vomit bag from the back of the seat in front of him. He shook it open, stretching out the corners, and placed it over Matilde’s mouth and nose, saying to her, “Hold the bag and breathe normally through your nose. Don’t be scared. Close your eyes and lie back.”

  Without touching her he reached over and pressed the button to make her seat recline. He fanned her with something, a magazine, she supposed.

  “Relax, Matilde. It will soon pass. It was that sharp drop. It’ll be over soon.”

  She kept her eyes closed, not because he told her to, but because she couldn’t bear to face him. She was embarrassed. She must look ridiculous breathing into a bag. She was afraid of throwing up. She didn’t want to do it in front of him. She hated nausea; it brought back terrible memories. She tried to relax. The blood had rushed to her stomach, that was why she felt so light-headed. It’ll be over soon, she told herself, it’s getting better already. She trembled when she realized that he was drying the sweat on her forehead.

  Eliah studied her attentively as he waved the magazine back and forth, amazed by the translucent quality of her skin; it had turned a pearly color around her eyelids, revealing a web of small, blue veins, which also showed at her temples.

  “It’s getting better, isn’t it?”

  He was speaking into her ear, and the sound of his voice sent a tremor through her. The sound wave, grave and deep, swept through her intensely, and rather than soothing her it felt almost disrespectful, as though he had run his hand over her breasts and groin. Startled, she opened her eyes. To her side, leaning over her a little, he was looking at her. She held his gaze for the few seconds it took to figure out why the green of his eyes had surprised her, why they seemed so bright and piercing; it was because of their dark surroundings. His lower eyelids looked as though they had been penciled in black and the upper eyelids were a dark shade of brown; his eyebrows, thick and dark as coal, added drama to the whole effect. She couldn’t remember ever having seen such exotic eyes. She took the bag away from her face, suddenly conscious of how ridiculous she must have looked.

  “Yes, thank you. I’m feeling better already.”

  “The color is coming back to your cheeks.”

  The fasten seat belt sign switched off. While Al-Saud called the flight attendant, Juana leaned over the back of the seat again. Her smile disappeared when she saw Matilde’s pallor.

  “Mat! What’s going on?” Without waiting for an answer, she rushed to her side.

  “The pilot descended too sharply and Matilde felt ill.”

  “I feel better now, Juani.”

  Juana’s professional behavior, taking hold of Matilde’s wrist to check her pulse, surprised him.

  “Your pulse is normal, honey.”

  “Are you a nurse?”

  “No. I’m…actually, we’re pediatricians. Well, in fact I’m a pediatrician and Matilde is a pediatric surgeon. The best pediatric surgeon in the world.”

  “That’s not true. Don’t listen to her,” Matilde protested with a weak smile.

  Eliah didn’t answer. He stared at her, disconcerted.

  Juana came back with a small, silver medical flashlight and studied the reactions of Matilde’s pupils.

  “I have to admit that I’m surprised. I didn’t think Matilde was more than twenty.”

  “When she braids her hair into pigtails, some people think she’s fifteen,” Juana replied, “but actually she’s almost twenty-seven. Her birthday’s in March. Can I speak to you informally, Eliah?” Juana asked, hoping to use the informal tu form generally spoken among young peop
le, friends and family rather than the more formal usted.

  “Of course.”

  “How old do you think I am? No, don’t answer, you’ll say I’m thirty-seven, but I’ll have you know that I just turned twenty-seven. Were you feeling nauseous, Mat?” Matilde nodded and Juana explained to Eliah, “Matilde hates nausea.”

  “I suppose we all do.”

  “Matilde more than most.”

  Eliah was distracted by the appearance of the flight attendant. He asked for a freshly squeezed orange juice with added sugar and a damp towel. Since they didn’t have oranges or a juicer in business class, she would have to ask her first-class colleagues. They had been ordered to treat the passenger in 7A like a king.

  Al-Saud looked back and forth between Matilde’s hands and her childish face, unable to reconcile them with the knowledge that they belonged to a skilled surgeon. He was also young—he would turn thirty-one in a month—but he appeared much older and already had a lifetime’s worth of experiences.

  “Honey,” Juana said, kissing Matilde on the forehead, “I’m sorry I wasn’t here when you felt bad.”

  “The gentleman helped me, he was very kind.” She turned her face toward Eliah. “Thank you, sir. I don’t know what I would have done without your help.”

  “Please, Matilde, don’t call me sir. I’m not an old man, you know.”

  “Yes, Mat, he said we don’t have to be formal,” Juana interrupted.

  The flight attendant waited for Eliah to take the table out of the left armrest before handing him the juice and the towel.