Talking to Ourselves: A Novel (5 page)

I wonder whether, perhaps without realizing it, we seek out the books we need to read. Or whether books themselves, which are intelligent entities, detect their readers and catch their eye. In the end, every book is the
I Ching
. You pick it up, open it and there it is, there you are.

In a novel by Mario Levrero, I’m startled when I recognize a familiar idea. The fact that the author and my husband share the same name has an even greater impact on my memory. The main character is stretched out beside his lover. He senses she doesn’t want to make love with him. And so he simply lies there on his back and takes her hand in his. She sighs with relief. And lays her head on his chest. Then the two of them experience an
instant
of complete communion, beyond the sexual realm or
perhaps
coming after the sexual realm: “I could be more graphic by saying we had a child that night, born not of flesh but of the denial of the flesh. And I sometimes shudder to think it may still be alive in its own world, doing who knows what. And yet I sense it was an ephemeral being.”

I remember when Mario didn’t want to have kids, or wasn’t sure he wanted them. We were just starting out and we thought our solitude was enough to fill the house. We spent whole afternoons simply clutching one another or holding hands, gazing out of the window. Whenever we spoke about it, Mario would tell me that we were our own child. That we cared for one another, nurtured one another. We felt we had created something attached to the two of us. That kind of creature who was both of us when we were together.

In the end we were three. The house filled up. And something, I am not sure what exactly, was driven out from between us.

As we become more confident in bed, Ezequiel begins to reveal himself. My initial response was instinctive rejection. I almost forbade him ever to touch me again. With his first attempt we screamed at each other. Not true: I did all the screaming. He remained calm. He didn’t even get up as I was putting my
clothes on. He went on talking to me slowly, in that anaesthetizing tone he has. Lying among the pillows. Smiling, naked. With a slightly lopsided erection.

Angry, I asked him if by any chance he took me for a
sadomasochist
. Ezequiel merely replied: If you were in my line of work, sadomasochism would seem the most natural thing in the world.

After recovering from my initial shock, I couldn’t help thinking about everything that lay in store for me. That in any event I hadn’t much to lose, or rather that I couldn’t lose much more than I already had. I felt again the way I did the first night we spent together, when Ezequiel admired my composure in dealing with the situation and said to me: I can’t take my eyes off your breasts or your dignity.

I agreed with trepidation. Just this once. To give it a try. As long as he promised to stop the moment I felt uncomfortable. That’s what we did. That’s what he did to me.

It didn’t take me long to realize that it was exactly what I needed. To reclaim my body. All of it, not just a part of it. An unmitigated punishment. A pain that would awaken me.

So now I am awakening.

He wants to hit me and wants me to hit him. He asks me to penetrate him with all kinds of household objects. The more threatening they look, the more they appeal to him. Ezequiel suggests we do things that, until only recently, I would have
considered
reportable. He collects ghastly films that arouse me in ways I later feel ashamed of. He dreams up forms of masturbation where we suffer simultaneously. He takes me from feeling ticklish to panic, from panting to pleading. As we thrash about he insults me in a way that ought to revolt me. His fixation on my anus reaches extremes I had never imagined. I don’t mean penetration (we already tried that, with remarkable roughness,
during our second meeting), but unexpected explorations
involving
all five senses. I say all five because, as well as seeing, touching, biting, and smelling everything, Ezequiel (I am
serious
) listens to my flesh. I had never seen, or of course heard, of this before. He does it on any part of my body. He lays his cheek against my skin, his ear up close, like a gynaecologist monitoring contractions, and narrows his eyes. And he smiles. I don’t know what he is hearing.

Tradition has it that sex results in the little death. I now believe that those who say this haven’t experienced the pleasure of harm. Because with Ezequiel I find the opposite is true: each fuck results in a resurrection. We insult each other. We tear into each other. We cause each other pain in order to make sure we are still here. And each time we reaffirm the other’s presence, the other’s suffering, we are as moved as if it were a reunion. Then I have orgasms that stretch the limits of my existence. As though my existence were a vaginal muscle.

I want to avenge myself on my own flesh.

The protagonist of a Richard Ford novel watches his lover in bed. He finds her distant or disappointed. I highlight his speculation: “Maybe that isn’t even surprising when you come down to it, since by scaling down my own pleasures I may have sold short her hopes for herself.”

It’s true, pleasure brings hope. Maybe that is why so many men leave us dissatisfied: their desire holds no promise. They are wary when they get into bed. As though they were already leaving before they have arrived. We women, even if only for a moment, even if we aspire to nothing more, tend to give ourselves completely, out of instinct or habit.

That is what makes Ezequiel so unusual. He gives himself, he squeezes himself dry, he pushes you to the limits. And it is obvious he never expects anything in return.

As a woman you often let yourself go and you don’t even know why. The men you sleep with don’t know either. It usually surprises or intimidates them. As though, with the expansion of your own pleasure, you were demanding something from them. Not that I blame them. We women are one long affliction. Perhaps that is why we are good at caring for the sick: we identify with their demanding side. Perhaps that is why men make such ham-fisted nurses. Filth terrifies them because they feel
implicated
by it. We women seem to like getting soiled. With discharge, blood, shit, anything. Poor us, poor them. If I could choose, I would be a man. And I would never get soiled without asking why.

I still can’t decide whether Ezequiel is masterfully cynical or a monster of empathy. Every night, after eating together, we talk about Mario. With infinite patience he describes the progress of the disease, the secondary problems in other organs, the general state of his immune system. He is careful to sum up the facts and to find instructive examples so he can be sure I understand. At such moments I find it hard to feel I am cheating, because this feels like a home visit. Ezequiel refers to palliative care with such tact, he speaks of my husband with such respect, that I begin to wonder whether he even considers our relationship
inappropriate
, let alone deviant. As though, in the meticulous Dr. Escalante’s eyes, caring for his patients involved the carnal duty of attending to their wives.

After clarifying my medical doubts, he lets me unburden
myself. He watches me weep from just the right distance: not too close (so as not to be intrusive) not too far (so as not to
abandon
me). At this stage he refrains from intervening. He simply watches me and from time to time gives a faint smile. I would even venture to say there is a measure of love in his silence. An unhealthy love perhaps, one permeated with the substance he is dealing with. When I can weep no more, I am assailed by a sense of exposure. Then Ezequiel comes to my aid, offers me warmth, embraces me, kisses my hair, whispers in my ear, caresses me, squeezes me, sticks his tongue in my mouth, undresses me, scratches me, rubs himself against me, tears my underwear, bites me between my thighs, pins down my arms, penetrates me,
violates
me, consoles me.

I think about the orgasms I am having. Not better or longer. Simply different in kind. Radiating from new places. I was
convinced
I had never experienced anything like it, until just now when I remembered something that may have been a precursor: the sad, quiet, tender fuck Mario and I had the day we found out what his illness was. Almost the last, in fact. Since then we have scarcely wanted or known how to make love amid so much death. On that occasion I had an anomalous orgasm. Like it belonged to some other woman. Perhaps this is where it all started. It sounds grotesque, but besides the sorrow we both shared it aroused me to imagine that the body penetrating me and making me come was fading, was almost a ghost.

That night there was a storm. It rained with a vengeance. There were loud claps of thunder. Trees swayed and objects banged about. We heard it all from the bedroom while we were making love. During the final moment I felt suspended. I was able to think with complete lucidity. Or rather I contemplated ideas that came unbidden. As Mario began to ejaculate, I could picture myself fixed in that instant, fucked for eternity. Knowing at the
same time that if it were possible to remain there forever, nothing would make sense. Not even pain, not even an orgasm. For a second the storm seemed joyful. Then the lightning made me very afraid.

In order not to feel inferior in the face of Ezequiel’s scientific knowledge, I made a list for him of the different verbs in Spanish that describe an orgasm. In Cuba, for example, the say
venirse—to draw near
. I like that verb because it suggests moving toward someone. It is a verb for two. And essentially unisex. In Spain they say
correrse—to run
. Which implies almost the opposite. Taking off at the end, moving away from the other. It is a verb for men. In Argentina they say
acabar—to end
. It sounds like an order. Like a military exercise. A Peruvian woman friend calls it
llegar—to arrive
. Put like that, it sounds almost like utopia (and it often is). As though you were far away or needed more time. Her husband says
darla—to give it
. Curious. That sounds like an offering. Or, being pessimistic, like a favour done to you: here, take this. In which case it doesn’t surprise me that my friend never
arrives
. In Guatemala they say
irse—to go
. A clear statement of abandonment. They need only add:
after you’ve paid
. In other countries they say
terminar—to finish
. Frustrating. It sounds like someone barges in and interrupts you halfway through. Here, though, perhaps because we are frontier people, we say
cruzar—to cross over
.

Are there places where they name women’s orgasms? Where they say
I’m drowning, I’m dissolving, I’m unravelling, I’m irradiating?

I asked Ezequiel which verb he liked best. He replied: That depends, Professor. When I’m on top,
venirme
. When I’m
underneath
,
llegar
. If I pick you up,
acabar
. From behind,
correrme
. When you blow me,
terminar
. When I’m outside you,
irme
. It depends.