The First Wife Read online

  I wake up inspired. Today I want to change my world. Today I want to do what all the women in this land do. Isn’t it true that love must be fought for? Well, today I want to fight for mine. I shall wield all my weapons and face the enemy, in defense of my love. I want to touch the soul of all the stones that lie in my path. I want to kiss the sand, grain by grain, that binds the fertile soil where my bed lies. I close my ears to the world and listen only to the flow of my waters. I listen to the intermittent sound of fine rain falling on the glass.

  I think a lot about this woman Julieta, or Juliana. She’s a pretty woman, so people say. She’s had a lot of children by my husband, Tony, I don’t know how many. It’s a solid, stable second home. Macabre ideas rush through my mind. I suddenly feel like boiling up a pot of oil and pouring it over the face of this woman Julieta or Juliana, to get rid of her. I feel like resorting to blows, like a fishwife. I pray. I pray with all my heart that this woman will die and go to hell. But she doesn’t die, and there’s no sign of the romance coming to an end. As long as she’s alive, I’ll never have my husband to myself, and I don’t want to share him with her. A husband isn’t a loaf of bread to be cut with a bread knife, a slice for each woman. Only Christ’s body can be squeezed into drops the size of the world, in order to satisfy all the believers in their communion of blood.

  I have a leisurely bath. I have a good meal to give myself energy. I leave the house and walk along, splashing freely along the rain-soaked streets. I get to 15th Street and stop in front of number 20. I make some initial comparisons. My house is one of the nicest places in the world. Full of open spaces. A fresh, abundant grassy lawn. Flowers for every season of the year. But this house is even better. It was built with my husband’s money, which is why it’s mine. This woman is imitating me and trying to be better than me. I’m furious as I ring the doorbell.

  During the brief moment I wait, I wonder what I’m doing there. Julieta or Juliana appears before me. She tries desperately to hold her nerve. She looks at me, quivering with terror as if she had come face-to-face with a snake. She feels her home has been invaded and there’s no way of avoiding this meeting. She is aware it’s a settling of scores, that she always knew she’d have to face one day. She invites me to come in, and I do so without ceremony. She’s plump, my God – I find this irritating – the bitch is well fed at my husband’s expense. While she holds her breath, I mumble some excuse for the visit.

  “Do I call you Julieta or Juliana?”

  “Julieta. How can I help you?”

  “I’m looking for my husband.”

  I go through the house room by room, I rummage around without asking permission, the house is my husband’s and therefore mine, I’m his legal spouse, our contract signed and sealed, and in the registry office. I look everywhere, and I see elegance and luster. This house has wider windows, more beautiful windowpanes that allow the fresh air to circulate. I realize that this house is far better than mine, my God, this house makes me incandescent with anger. What was Tony thinking when he had this house built? What did they think of me when they submitted the plans for this house? And where did the money come from to build and then furnish this house? As far as I can see, the power of forbidden love is in full flower. All this ostentation has an air of falseness for me, as false as the love that built this house. I weigh things up at a glance. I want to find out from Julieta what it is she has that I don’t. What makes Tony distance himself from me and fall in love with her. She’s really pretty, I can see that, but for God’s sake, no matter how pretty she is, she has no right to take my husband away from me.

  I look at the wall. A photo hanging there makes me even more furious. It’s she and Tony, arm in arm, smiling for all the world to see. Their eyes seem to be staring at me, mocking me. In my house, Tony doesn’t like photos on show. A portrait on the wall is for the dead, he says, but he allows this woman to do what is forbidden to me.

  “Have you managed to find your husband?”

  She addresses me from the topmost tower of her cathedral, given that she is more loved than I am. I suffer, I almost die, as if she were sliding a steel scissor blade into my heart. Do you know what it’s like to be addressed so haughtily by the person who has stolen your husband? I’m not going to allow myself to cringe before a weeping thief, I can’t do that. She’s a woman and so am I. I’ve got fire in my body, and it’s too bad I’m going to give vent to it. I’m going to get to the bottom of things and settle this score by hook or by crook.

  “So what about that picture there?” I ask.

  “What about it?”

  “What’s it doing there?”

  “What right have you to ask that question?”

  I look at my rival in the eye. I see in this woman’s face the death of my love, the cause of my pain. It’s because of this that I feel so lonely. She bewitched my husband in order to take him away from me. But I’m not going to abandon him to her embrace, oh no. I feel the bile rising from deep inside me. I feel sick. The party’s only starting.

  First round. There are tempestuous explosions of rage. I hurl all the terms of abuse in the world at her. No one can stand my saber-like tongue. I surprise myself by screaming insults I have never used before. Obscenities pour from my mouth that I was never aware of before. She retaliates and the game begins. Second round. I throw a punch at my rival. I jump on her, pull her nose, and she is overwhelmed by the shock. She reacts and defends herself with a superhuman force that comes from some unknown place within her. I up my game and deliver some hearty blows like those you see in kung fu films. My body is heavy and my movements sluggish. My rival is lighter and more agile. She scratches me, rips my clothes off, tears me, bites me, punches me. Third round. I defend myself well, I tear her wig off and scratch her face. Fourth round. I get the feeling I’m losing the fight. I retreat into the street. My adversary chases after me, knocks me over, and we roll around in the puddles while the rain falls on us. She digs her nails into my neck and almost strangles me. Her children unleash deafening screams of alarm. I begin to panic. I feel as if I’m going to die, I start to scream, begging her to let me go. I manage to break free. Fifth round. Help! This woman’s killing me! As I’m trying to run away, I’m hit by a bottle in the neck. I see stars in the overcast sky. Sixth round. I went to war and lost the fight. I faint.

  Women leave their houses and come to the rescue. The neighborhood administrator turns up and separates us. I try to explain myself. I stutter. A large lump appears on my forehead. On my shoulders, there are gaping wounds shedding blood. My whole body is covered in mud. On my lips, the stubborn question:

  “Where’s my husband?”

  “If he’s yours, you should know where he is.”

  I’m in such a pitiful state that I can’t go anywhere as I am. Julieta takes me inside. She gives me a warm bath. She dresses my wounds. She chooses her best clothes and dresses me like a princess. She washes and combs my hair. She’s got a big heart, this woman.

  She leads me to the sitting room and we sit facing each other. I take her in. She has neat, painted nails. Well-kept, uncrimped hair, things I never had. Tony forbids me from wearing any embellishments or artificial adornments. He wants me just as God put me in the world. The clothes she wears were made by a carefully chosen dressmaker while I only wear factory-made or secondhand clothes. I rummage through bundles of used clothes in the market on the corner in order to dress the whole family decently and to save money. She has an audaciously plunging neckline, with her armpits on show, while Tony wants me dressed and buttoned up like a nun. What is forbidden for me, the other woman is allowed. I am offended by this contradiction.

  We begin to talk. Coldly. Delicately. My rival opens herself up and tells me her long story. Her bed is as cold as mine. She’s even lonelier than I am. She has five children and a sixth on the way.

  “How did it all happen?” I ask.

  “He wooed me when I was a young girl,” she replies without beating about the bush, tears in her ey
es. “He told me he was single. It was only when I became pregnant that he told me he had a wife and child. But he immediately made a point of telling me he’d been forced to marry and was waiting for an opportunity to get a divorce. He made wonderful promises. The years passed. I saw my children born one by one, and each time he would renew his promises of marriage.

  I am touched. Remorseful. I pity this woman who did everything to destroy me and ended up abandoned. A woman who fought for love and ended up in pain. Who pointed up into the air and declared that the bird in full flight was hers.

  “How long is it since you last saw him?”

  “Seven months.”

  “?!”

  “Ever since I became pregnant, seven months ago.”

  “That means …”

  “Yes, he only comes here to answer the call of the divine creator. To seed my belly, in order to fill the earth and multiply.”

  “Ah!”

  God fashioned man and woman in one gesture, but the birth of humanity was completed in the same act. In the first stage, man places the shape of the woman’s head on her. Then he places in her the shape of her heart, her race, her arms, feet, and over the course of months he completes her body block by block. Poor Julieta! She’s got her head in her belly and no longer has anyone to put her ears, mouth, and nose on her. Her poor child will be born a monster, without eyes, hands, or feet.

  “Why is he doing this to you?”

  “He only comes to leave me money and food. He has a bath, changes clothes, and goes.”

  My rival descends from her pedestal, closes her eyes, and bows her head. From the depths of her being, tears flow in a cascade like acid rain. Poor Julieta, what did she expect? Did she think she was better than me? Sadly, many of us women act like that. We climb to the top of the mountain and only when we’re up there do we realize we don’t have wings to fly. We throw ourselves from the heavenly heights and fall into a dark, bottomless well, and our hearts break like a porcelain vase. I pity Julieta, who shakes in violent convulsions to the rhythm of her weeping. I give her a hug. I know the bitterness of such crying and the heat of such fire. I’m moved. I sympathize.

  Crying has a miraculous effect, for it sweeps away all trials and tribulations. I say nothing and allow her frantic tears to exercise their miraculous effect. Then I comfort her. I suffer with her. Poor thing, she is more of a victim than a rival. She was pursued and betrayed like me.

  “We’re together in this tragedy. Me, you, all women. All I want is for you to understand why I was so angry. I know I was wrong to attack you. I transferred all my pains onto you, even though I knew you weren’t the guilty party.”

  “I understand,” she tells me, her head bowed.

  “But,” I ask, “if he’s not here, where is he, then?”

  “In the arms of a third one, perhaps.”

  “A third one?”

  “Yes, a third woman.”

  “Is that possible?”

  “Younger than both of us. More beautiful, so they say.”

  “Do you know her?”

  “Yes. I’ve come to blows with her a few times.”

  “But … Julieta, how can you come to blows over a husband that isn’t even yours?”

  “So what’s the meaning of the word yours, when we’re talking about men?”

  This produces a moment’s pause, which is solemn, profound. We challenge each other, eye to eye. Julieta shows me a truth more bitter than a cup of poison. Possession is one of the many illusions of our existence, because human beings are born and will die empty handed. Everything we think we have, life lends us for only a short time. Your child is yours when he’s in your womb. Your child is yours when you suckle him. Even the money we have in the bank, we only touch it for a short time. A kiss is a mere touch and a hug lasts only a minute. The sun is yours, from up there, high above. The sea is yours. Night. The stars. Every being is born alone, on their day, at their time, and comes into the world empty handed. I think about what I have. Nothing, absolutely nothing. My love isn’t reciprocated. I feel pain and yearning for a husband who is always away. Anxiety. To have is ephemeral, the never-ending illusion of possessing the intangible. Yours is what you were born with. Yours is your husband when he’s inside you.

  “We’re fighting because we’ve got things in common, see?” she says.

  “No, we don’t,” I reply. “I have to acknowledge you are younger and prettier. That you’ve suffered more. For Tony to leave me and to love you, you must really be better than I am.”

  I am really touched. This woman’s anguish is far worse than mine. At least I experienced dreams and was led to the altar. My husband was always by me each time I gave birth to our five children. I even had the pleasure of insulting him and blaming him for all the pains I felt while being delivered of his children. Julieta was deceived from the start. There’s nothing worse than eternal frustration.

  “That’s where you’re wrong. Women are different in name and in their physical appearance. But for the rest, they’re all the same. Just look. He deceived you and he deceived me. When he’s not here, I think he’s with you and vice versa. He told you he loved you. He told me he loved me. Here we are like two prisoners fighting over the same man. Lord! He said such wonderful things to me. And what came of it all? He stuffed me full of children and then left.”

  My conscience weighs like lead. A feeling of sympathy springs from my silence. Through the open window, I see the gray sky and feel dizzy. I quiver with pity, sadness, and shame. All women are twins, solitary, with no prospect of dawn or springtime. We seek our treasure in mines that have already been worked and are exhausted, and we end up ghosts amid the ruins of our dreams.

  “Julieta, I ask you to forgive me, to forgive me a thousand times over.”

  I leave 15th Street in a taxi. I’m full of bandages and swelling, and I’m dressed in my rival’s clothes. I creep furtively into my home like a thief. I have a terrible headache. What happened? My children ask, and I tell them I slipped in the mud, and I hurry to my room to change my clothes. I rush to the mirror and see what a sorry state I’m in. The hiding I got has quelled my anguish. I no longer yearn for Tony. He can stay wherever he is until my wounds have healed. The farther away, the better. The image in the mirror appears again and laughs.

  “Mirror, mirror of mine, look what they’ve done to me!”

  “You deserve what they did to you, my friend.”

  “Do you think what I did was bad?”

  “You assaulted the victim and left the villain unharmed. You didn’t solve anything.”

  “Ah!”

  I take an aspirin and put a bag of ice on my forehead to lessen the swelling. I sit down carefully in the chair, and take a deep breath. Wow! That was some beating I got! All this turmoil began with that business over Betinho. Shattered glass is a bad omen, so the popular saying goes.

  I sing my favorite song to ward off my loneliness. A desire to leave everything behind begins to well up inside me. To get a divorce. Smash this home to smithereens. Maybe find a new love. But no. I can’t let Tony go. If I leave him, other women will sleep in this bed, I’m not getting out of here. If I get a divorce, my husband will marry Julieta or some other woman, there’s no point in leaving. If I go, my children will be raised by others, they’ll eat the bread made by the devil, I can’t leave.

  3

  Tony is snoring like a toad, I don’t know what came over him today to come and sleep here. He’s right next to me, but more distant than the clouds on the horizon. He fell asleep without speaking to me. When I ask him something, he mumbles yes or no and says nothing else. He’s as impenetrable as a rock, inviolable as a rampart. As far as I am concerned, he has neither soul nor breath, he doesn’t talk, he doesn’t sigh or show any sign of life at all. When I wake him up to talk, he opens one eye, groans, turns over, and snores. It’s like having a corpse in my bed. A heap of flesh. A jellyfish, a sea cucumber, a monster. He’s like a pile of jelly, stirring viscously in my be
d. I shudder.

  A mysterious voice deep within addresses me in all seriousness. It conveys a saturnine, diabolical message: Get your revenge, he’s in your hands, as still as a corpse, get your revenge. Knock him over the head with a saucepan. A stone. Give him a punch. Stab him in the …! In despair, I pray. Away with you, bad thought, away! Go to hell where all evil dwells, go, I don’t want my hands stained by your violence.

  My bad thoughts get the better of me, I can’t resist them, I wake him up quickly before disaster strikes.

  “Tony. Answer me. Why are you never here?”

  “Is that all you woke me up for?”

  “Tony, you’re betraying me, aren’t you?”

  “Betraying?”

  “Yes.”

  “Ah!”

  I summon up all my courage and tell him everything that’s on my mind: I talk about how I miss him, about my anxiety. About his continual absences, which make the household ungovernable because of the lack of a man’s firmness. He growls like a dog and puts on an angry face. My nerves get the better of me and I accuse him. I tell him about the fights I’ve been involved in, the wounds, the treatment at the clinic. I was expecting an angry reaction, shouting, a row, a slap. But he turns over the other way, pulls the blanket over himself, and tries to go back to sleep. He’s embarrassed.

  “Betrayal is a crime, Tony!”

  “Betrayal? Don’t make me laugh! Purity is masculine, sin is female. Only women can betray, men are free, Rami.”

  “What?”

  “Please, let me sleep.”

  “But Tony,” I shake him furiously. “Tony, wake up, Tony, Tony, Tony …!”

  He’s not listening. He’s snoring. He’s able to sleep peacefully, while I’m left in this quandary. Bastard! Miserable, unfeeling wretch! Tyrant! I get out of bed and sit on the settee, just to watch him. He’s smiling. He’s dreaming. Where is his mind wandering in his dreams? He looks as if he’s deep under the sea. Among the cracks between the coral. In some marine paradise full of love, in a happier world than this one. Is he in the arms of Julieta, or of some other love I know nothing about? I am vexed. My Tony, where do you go when sleep takes you? You travel alone and in silence. Why don’t you take me with you? Tony sighs and interrupts my thoughts. I watch him closely. He sighs like someone in love. Then he screeches and shouts, he’s calling someone’s name. I listen carefully. He’s dreaming of a woman. He’s sighing over a woman. I look at the clock. It’s just past midnight. He awakens confused and speaks as if answering a call from another world. He dresses hurriedly as if he were sleepwalking.