Breathing Through the Wound

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Breathing Through the Wound Page 34

by Victor del Arbol


  “I never thought it would be like this,” she whispered.

  “What would?” Mr. Who asked, tucking back a lock of her hair that had fallen loose from the scarf covering her head. Mei worked in Chang’s clandestine processing plant, packaging fast food. The old man didn’t give them insurance, made them sleep on mattresses on the floor right next to the packing machinery, and paid them no salary, yet he still made Mei cover her beautiful dark hair with a hairnet and scarf. The world could be a sick place.

  “Everything,” she said, looking down at her hands, which were grazed and raw from the plastic and preservatives. She raised her almond-shaped eyes to him and smiled timidly. Mei had a small mouth and thin lips. It occurred to Mr. Who the first time he saw her, that hers was a mouth made to sing sad songs. When Mei had stowed away in a container on a cargo ship headed to a port in Spain, she spent the entire journey consoling the dozens of people who—like her—hid, cowering, some having chosen that route and others having been forced into it. She told them that Spain was a beautiful place where the air was clean and the people were always smiling. The fairy tale calmed many fears; people will believe anything if they need to, and everyone—including her—wanted her words to be true.

  But Heaven’s gates did not open for her.

  In spite of everything, Mei thought she had no right to complain. She worked twenty hours a day, eating and going to the bathroom there in the secret factory. And she’d never be able to pay the debt she owed Chang and the men who had brought her to Europe. She didn’t want to worry Mr. Who, but she suspected that she might soon be transferred to another city. She’d heard people talking about a place on the southern coast, in Andalucía, where Chang and his associates were setting up brothels. They’d already moved the youngest and prettiest girls, and although nobody knew exactly where, they all had a pretty good idea.

  And yet still, she couldn’t complain. Her mother used to say that she was the strongest of all her siblings, the oldest and the only one she could trust. When it all comes crumbling down, she used to say, you’ll still be standing—the pillar of the household. She was born under the sign of Ma, the horse. As a little girl she’d always been joyful and optimistic, always confronted problems head-on, with enthusiasm, and that made her popular with the neighbors. Though she no longer felt the keen urge to travel and have a life of adventure, to meet people and prove her worth, she managed to instill a degree of hope in the girls she was locked up with. She had to be strong when others were weak. A proverb from her native land said, The sick are always healed, unless destiny is against them. And she believed in destiny, always and forever, no matter what. The kind of destiny you make for yourself.

  Besides, she had him, Mr. Who; he was Mei’s destiny. Maybe it was true what old people said, that you fall in love with your eyes and keep love with routine, but she didn’t want to believe it. Old people were hard and intransigent—their defeats made them that way—but Mei never got tired of contemplating the face that was now just a few centimeters from hers. Before he came along, Mei didn’t believe in the future; she thought only about the next step, the next order, the next minute. But a year later, she liked listening to him promise he was going to get her out of that prison, that he was going to save up money to buy them new passports so they could go back to China and start a new life together, start a family, maybe even start a business. Mr. Who had a plan, he always had a plan, and it was easy to believe in his dreams. And even if they were just dreams, he was sincere.

  Mr. Who worked toward that goal every single day, asking her to sing him songs, to tell him about her country, and her people. He wanted to put down roots, to learn everything there was to know about being Chinese—which she was and he aspired to be. Mei indulged him without pointing out the contradiction in her having landed in Spain in search of paradise, of a future that she now saw had never existed. It was exactly the same paradise Mr. Who was inventing and would end up discovering was just an illusion in China. But his dreams were something they both shared, more and more, and she was in need of a little hope. A lie is not always the lack of truth—sometimes it’s about clinging to the part of reality you most need in order to keep from going under. So Mei fueled Who’s fantasies of China, and in exchange she chose to believe that this incredibly beautiful, strangely dressed young man—as sweet and sensitive as a little boy—would be able to wrench her from Chang’s talons.

  That night Mei had decided to go a step further in her dreamy recklessness. In the early evening, old man Chang had burst into the sweatshop and told them to run. It happened every once in a while. The police would make raids in search of illegal workers, but Chang must have been bribing someone, because he always seemed to know in advance. Fifty or so women on the floor scrambled out, and only the half-a-dozen whose papers were in order remained. A few hours later it would all be back to normal. But, this time, the cops seemed to be taking it all quite seriously. They searched the workshop exhaustively, discovered buckets full of excrement, rolled-up mattresses tucked under worktables, and half-eaten food that had been abandoned mid-meal. The police took Chang in to interrogate him. In all likelihood, his lawyers wouldn’t take long to get him out and he’d soon be back—but in the meantime, Mei could enjoy a few hours of freedom with Mr. Who.

  “We could run away, right now,” he said, so anxious that it was clear not even he actually believed it was an option. Not yet anyway. Mei put a finger to his lips. Her fingernail was jagged on one side, the polish chipped. It was rough to the touch and gave off an odor that no amount of water had been able to remove. But it was her finger, and, to him, it felt like a silk ribbon stroking his lips as softly as the laces on his mother’s ballet slippers.

  “Dreams that shouldn’t be dreamed can hurt you,” she smiled.

  Mr. Who took her finger and held it in his hand. Mei didn’t know much very about him—just what he needed her to know. Who preferred it that way; he didn’t want to put her in danger, and certainly didn’t want to scare her by telling her what he did, and what he was planning to do.

  “At least Chang won’t be back tonight. We’ve got that,” she added, her tiny body curling up against Who’s torso. When he held her, he could feel her ribs beneath the baggy dress and apron, which she hadn’t taken off. He felt her tiny heart trying to pound its way out, as if his chest were a wall and her heart a battering ram about to knock it down. “I want it to be today. Now. With you,” she said almost inaudibly, her voice muffled against Mr. Who’s jacket.

  Mei had never made love with a man before, never even seen a man naked. Even in the close quarters of the sweatshop she managed to bathe and go to the bathroom in private and hold on to her decency—that was the one thing that kept her from turning into an animal in that heaving overcrowded zoo. But she’d heard Chang talking, and knew it was almost her turn. They were going to take her, give her to a stranger—or maybe Chang and his men would rape her first, force her to take drugs, beat her, humiliate her. They were going to take the one thing she had left—her dignity—and trample it, turn it to rubble. That was why she had decided upon this one final act of freedom. She wanted to know what it felt like to be made love to slowly, with tenderness, with love, even if it was just this once.

  * * *

  —

  She never imagined it could be so beautiful. The veins in Mei’s throat throbbed and she opened her mouth as if to cry out in silence. Mr. Who couldn’t stop staring into her half-closed eyes, and he entered her with a tenderness and intensity that came from a distant, long-forgotten place. Mei was his mirror, a place he could let himself go, fall deeper and deeper into those eyes; it was a chance for salvation, poetic justice. Suddenly he felt lost and awkward, his fingers trembling uncontrollably—he, a man who fucked for a living, a man who specialized in all things kinky, now saw that life was so much more than his experiences, that it could begin again, that people are born anew each time they cross a new frontier. Mei was his Ne
w World.

  She saw that Who’s eyes were shining, looking like he was going to cry, and because she had no experience to judge by and also felt a supreme joy that led her to the brink of tears, she thought that that must be the language of love. So she stroked Who’s face, wanting to heal him, to tell him that she was with him. That the two of them were so real they could conquer the impossible.

  Orgasm flooded through them both, leaving them in a state of wonder. For a long time, Mr. Who remained inside her, neither of them moving, not wanting to sever the invisible bond that held them together. They remained silent even longer, legs entwined, Who stroking the tapestry of red that had flourished on her delicate skin despite how gently he’d touched and kissed her, Mei exploring his tattoo with her fingers.

  “Your heart is beating so fast. Are you in a rush to get somewhere?” she asked with a beautiful smile, free of fear and guilt. She wanted to exchange confidences, to engage in the pillow talk that follows sexual intimacy, to feel the pleasure of being able to say and hear things lovers only say and hear after making love, things and gestures that under other circumstances Mei would never have dared express.

  But Who’s mood had darkened. He was still there with her, wanting to stay by her side as long as possible. But the sounds of the street and the voices in his head were already dragging him, by the hair, back to the reality he lived when he was not with her. He held Mei tightly in both arms, his legs circling her hips. Mei went limp, trying as hard as she could to merge with him. She sensed the doubts churning inside him, could almost hear his thoughts. And they weren’t good.

  “What’s the matter?” she asked with a hint of uncertainty. She’d heard that some men ran off the minute they were done having sex. And she didn’t want Mr. Who to be one of those.

  He tried to find the right words to express what he was feeling.

  “What would you think if you found out that this is not who I am?”

  Suddenly Mr. Who’s voice was very thick. Mei propped herself up on one elbow and examined him closely.

  “I’d say that I must be crazy, because that would mean that what just happened didn’t happen, and I didn’t really feel what I felt. If you’re not the one here with me now, then you’re a ghost. So I must be crazy and this must be a fantasy.”

  Who hadn’t yet grown accustomed to Mei’s style of deductive reasoning. He struggled not to interpret her view of the obvious as naiveté.

  “What I mean is, I’m more than one person. There are other people inside me, and you wouldn’t like them all.”

  “We open only the doors we wish to open, that the light may enter slowly,” she replied soothingly.

  “Do you have always the answer?” he asked, slightly irritated.

  “No, not always, although I imagine there must be one.” She wasn’t stupid. She knew what Who was trying to say, but she didn’t want to hear it. She hardly knew him, they’d spent so little time in one another’s company and it was always furtive. They were always stealing time, blurting out what should have been said patiently, expressed over time. That night was the first time they’d ever shared a bed, spent a whole few hours together, shared the intimacy of their bodies. And even though she herself had no experience, it was clear to Mei that she was not the first woman Mr. Who had loved, despite what he claimed. It was as if he were a professional ballet dancer who’d forgotten the basic steps and was trying to relearn them with her. He hadn’t wanted to scare her or panic her. But now his words and questions were doing just that.

  “What if you could ease one person’s sorrow by causing another’s?” he asked.

  Sometimes questions are cast out like bait. But this wasn’t one of those.

  Mei shivered. She didn’t want to know what was behind those doors. Not until she was sure she could handle it, or at least understand what she was going to find on the other side.

  “I’m not entirely certain what you’re trying to tell me,” she replied, reflecting for a few seconds, “but transferring one person’s misfortune never heals the harm that’s been caused—the original harm, I mean. It simply becomes a series of errors and suffering that takes you away from the source of sorrow but not to its end.”

  Mr. Who realized he should say no more. She was imploring him to, and his need to be honest was not based on her acceptance of him, but simply on his need to ease the burden weighing on him. It wasn’t fair.

  “I don’t know why I said all of that. I’m sorry,” he said, after a brief sigh.

  “Of course you know, but that doesn’t matter now,” she replied, closing her eyes for an instant. Her eyelashes were short and gave her a languid look. Mei sat on the mattress and began to gather her clothes. “I have to go back to the factory now or Chang’s men will become suspicious. And you have a call to answer on your mobile phone.”

  Mr. Who fished his phone out of the pocket of his overalls. It was a woman, one of his clients phoning. He could already imagine what she wanted. He hung up without answering.

  “Nothing important.”

  Mei stroked Who’s cheek. He was lying again, but she felt that once again his lies were like armor being used to protect her. As long as lies can be detected in the face of a liar, all is not lost, she thought. And Who’s expression was as transparent as a little boy’s.

  “Let’s leave the insincerity to the insincere, okay?”

  Mr. Who went to say something, but she stopped him, sealing his lips with a kiss.

  “I don’t know what it is that torments you. But I do know that you can’t walk forward when you keep looking back.”

  * * *

  —

  When he got home, Mr. Who had to face his mother’s tormented look. Since the night he’d told her that he’d found and was going to kill Eduardo, they hadn’t spoken about it again—as though it were a done deal, as though there were nothing to discuss. But, at dinnertime, she pushed her wheelchair to the table and stared at him as he cut his meat, served himself salad, dressed it with vinegar. Her silence was so loud drowned out the sound of their cutlery. Her expectant silence turned to disappointment every night, when Mr. Who put the dishes in the sink and kissed her good night. When are you going to do it? she asked, without saying a word.

  But each night when he returned home, his hands were empty. And clean.

  “There’s a woman, and a little girl. They love him. They’re like a family.”

  They were in the kitchen, having finished dinner, crumbs and the wet ring of a glass still visible on the oilcloth. Who said it without thinking—it just came out, as he wiped the crumbs and dried the watermark with a dishtowel. To avoid looking at his mother, he stared at the television. An ad for detergent. “Spotless,” they claimed, “clean as a paten.” Who wondered how many people actually knew that a paten was the gold plate that held the bread during the Eucharist. Mei’s skin was spotless, he thought. Her eyes, too. He would have liked to find sanctuary in them, and not have to look into his stepmother’s—when Mr. Who unconsciously wanted to distance himself from Maribel, he thought of her as his stepmother rather than his mother. In that sense, at least, the poison Chang fed him during their sessions had worked. When Teo used to hit Maribel (it wasn’t often, in truth, but from time to time he did take out his anger on her with a slap or two) Who thought of him as his stepfather, too. Something a step away from a real father, as if his father was standing on a stool and he could kick it out from under him and watch him fall.

  “What do you mean by that?”

  It wasn’t a question; it was an attack. Have the guts to say what you’re thinking. Tell me you’re having doubts, that you don’t know what to do. Tell me to my face that you’re scared to avenge the death of my husband.

  Mr. Who looked at Maribel. Calling her by her name was another way to distance himself from the woman leaning toward him expectantly, elbows on the metal armrests of her wheelchair. As if she coul
d get up, as if she could leap up and attack him. He watched her try to conceal her sense of urgency and took his time picking crumbs off the dishtowel. Now there was a commercial for deodorant on—“Natural.” The only thing that’s natural is skin. It perspires. It suffers. It dies.

  “I mean that it’s been fourteen years, and people change.”

  He didn’t say that he was in love with a girl who was in Spain illegally. He didn’t say he was afraid of going to jail; or that he was young and had a future—any future—far from the house that had turned him, too, into an invalid. Nor did he tell Maribel that he loved her, that he’d always love her, no matter where he was, and that in a way he’d never loved Teo. Or that one day she’d be a grandmother, and he’d send her photos and postcards of his house, his business, her grandchildren, who would have both Spanish and Chinese blood. And he’d teach them the songs she used to sing him when he was a child, and that he wouldn’t let them smoke, not even Chinese tobacco. And that they’d never be forced to degrade themselves to put food on the table.

  It wouldn’t have done any good, he knew that. His words, his reasoning, would have bounced right off Maribel’s stony-faced determination. He didn’t want to say those things, didn’t want to feel the pain of a wound reopening, one that would never heal. He didn’t want to hear that his mother didn’t care about her own son’s happiness (oddly, Who had never called himself her stepson). All she cared about was her own pain. And pain was an insatiable god who demanded endless sacrifice, Who’s hopes and dreams being the first of them.

  Instead he simply shook the crumbs into the sink, and this time Maribel didn’t reproach him, saying that’s how the drain got clogged and he should use the rubbish bin, since that was what it was there for. When he turned, she’d already wheeled herself out of the kitchen. He heard her go into Teo’s bedroom. A minute later he heard her wheeling herself back down the parquet of the hall. With sudden energy, she circled the table, stopping a centimeter from Mr. Who. On her lap was an olive-colored, square metal box. She placed it on the counter.

 

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