The House in Smyrna (12 page)

Sometimes we'd stay at home all weekend. You knew how to touch me like no man. You made me come like no man. You made me believe it was love. I believed that I loved you. I believed that you loved me. On days like that, I'd simply forget that I was covered in wounds, that you'd flayed my skin. On days like that, I'd pretend my body was whole and I'd offer it up to you. You knew how to touch it without hurting me, without your hands coming into contact with my wounds. You forgot too and you pretended too. To this day, I don't know if there was love in that madness, but I try to convince myself that there wasn't, that it can't have been love. I try to believe that love is something else, that it doesn't lay waste to the body like that, it doesn't flay your skin or leave you so vulnerable, flesh exposed. I try to believe it, but I'm afraid I might be wrong. To be honest, I'm terrified that love is this invasive pain that devours the body, the soul.

They all laid their forks on their plates and looked in my direction when I asked: Is my grandfather's house still standing? Raphael hesitated and then looked up and said: No, did you want to see it? I told him that my grandfather had given me the key to try and open the door of his former home. He gave me a quizzical look. Doesn't your grandfather know the house was demolished? he asked. Taken by surprise, I stammered: I don't think so. But it got me wondering.

He didn't get up to answer the door; in fact, the sound barely registered with him. He had long since given up checking to see who was there when the doorbell rang. When he was finally convinced there was nothing he could do, he gave in to despondency. He only went out to buy what was absolutely essential in order to survive. He felt too guilty to just pick up where he'd left off. He never should have left her on her own. Why hadn't he gone with her? Why hadn't he listened to her endless pleas to seek exile at the Costa Rican embassy? The choice to fight had been his, not hers. He felt responsible.

The doorbell kept ringing, but the intervals between one ring and another were too long. It sounded like a lament, the last request of someone without strength. Only then, after almost an hour, did he sense that … Yes, it was her on the other side of the door, dressed in the clothes she had been wearing the day they took her — the same pair of jeans, the same grey t-shirt, the same leather bag slung across her body. But what about the rest of her? What had they done with her eyes? With her smile? It was her, crouching on the doorstep, head between her knees. Her. He was still standing. It took some effort to carry her to the sofa in his equally weak arms. He set her down carefully and stretched out beside her. He couldn't stop crying. She just lay there, unspeaking. They lost track of time lying there like that: he in tears and she inert, expressionless. It might have been a day or two, or months, years; it might have been forever. Without exchanging a word, arms around each other, feeling the same pain, but such different pain.

I'm pregnant, I said.

Get rid of it, you said without flinching.

Get rid of it? No way.

What do you mean, no way? Do you think I'm going to have a kid at this point in my life?

I don't think so, I said. I know so.

Oh no I'm not, you insisted.

Oh yes you are, I said, holding my ground.

We'll see, you said.

And we didn't broach the subject again, each of us firm in our certainty.

A week later I understood how contradictory our wishes were. To this day I don't know if it was you or my fear. We were having breakfast together, as usual, when I felt a twinge in my abdomen, like a period cramp, but sharper. Clutching my stomach, I doubled over. You acted worried, and came over to put your arm around me. What is it?

I didn't answer. I just howled in agony and pushed you away. I was angry. In my heart there was only room for hatred and the certainty that it was you. Then, with my head between my legs, I saw blood come gushing out of me, spreading over my legs, running down the chair. Without looking up, I cried out for the child I had lost, the child I already loved. Not for a second in the hours to come — not even when I was in the hospital, recomposed, out of danger — did I raise my head, not for a second did I look you in the eye. I was afraid to find the answer I wanted to avoid, to discover a terrible confession. I was afraid you didn't know how to lie well enough to hide the truth from me.

Between dessert and tea, Raphael asked: Why didn't your grandfather come to try and open the door himself?

I have the same dream over and over. I am asleep and you arrive and sit on the bed next to me. You stroke my hair in silence. I wake up and see you. Before I have time to be surprised, you say, I'm back. Staring into my eyes, you say, I had to go away, but I'm back now. I squeeze your hand tightly so you won't escape me this time. Then I frown and ask: You mean, you had a choice?

I was alone again, wandering the city. I thought about everything I'd done so far. The dinner with the family was still drifting through my thoughts, in a mixture of disappointment, contentment, and amusement. As I strolled through the streets of Smyrna, I felt that I'd already completed the first part of my journey. I didn't have anything else to do in Turkey and I still wanted to go to Portugal, where there were neither relatives nor a house to look for. Nevertheless, it was my family's country of origin and the place I was born. I was nine months old when I left, in my mother's arms. Not enough time in which to form memories, to be sure, but even so I believed I might find some meaning in Lisbon for my body, my story.

They had spent almost a month at the consulate without contact with the outside world, unable to leave, to make phone calls, receive visitors, anything. It was the eve of their departure for Costa Rica. The vice consul knocked on the door of the room they slept in. You know visits are not allowed, but she insisted. She decided to take the risk and come to see you. She says she can't let her daughter leave without saying goodbye first. I'm going to allow it because you're leaving the country tomorrow, and we don't know for how long, but be brief. No more than fifteen minutes.

She looked at her husband with tears in her eyes. My mother's here. Good God, she's crazy. She tidied her hair and went to see her. Fifteen minutes — no longer, repeated the vice consul.

They hadn't seen each other for over a year. They had spoken a few times by telephone, when she had managed to get to a public phone booth. But it was always in a hurry, and their conversations were strange, almost in code, with no names or places, just to say: I'm fine, don't worry, everything will be okay. On the other end, her mother's fretful voice, on the verge of tears: Don't stay here, honey, leave the country.

There she was, hunched over like a hook. The hall was large and she ran to get to her as quickly as possible. Her mother was shorter than her and fit into her embrace like a child. They cried without speaking, just hugging each other and sobbing. Nothing they could have said, no word they could have uttered, would have scratched the surface of everything they had to say to each other. How much they missed each other, the lumps in their throats, the clandestine life of one, the quiet life of the other, their plans, projects, home, lack of home. Do you know the risk you're taking to come here? She didn't answer. Of course she knew, but how could you weigh up the risk? How could she not see her daughter? The day she had children of her own, she'd understand.

Does Dad know?

No, he wouldn't have let me come. She shook her head, as if reprimanding a naughty child. They touched each other, a confusion of hands, faces, and caresses. I miss you so much, darling; I miss you so much, Mother.

They sat on the sofa. Her mother was getting old. Her stout legs, purple with varicose veins, couldn't stand for too long. She tired easily and had many health problems — so many doctors, medications, pills with each meal.

How are you, darling?

I'm fine. We leave tomorrow. We won't have to hide anymore.

I'm relieved.

You'll come to visit us as soon as you can, won't you?

Of course we will, your father and I. Call us, write, send news. We'll be on the first plane.

She smiled and breathed easier, relaxing. There, in that hall, on that sofa, she left behind her fear, her anxiety, and the pain of separation. Although they were about to part, this time her heart was filled with the certainty that she'd see her mother again. And every certainty that came to her was a fear that left her. The vice consul came to the door: Your time's up.

They looked at each other tenderly, not ready to say goodbye yet. Fifteen minutes were nothing after more than a year of distance. She stood, went over to the austere gentleman waiting stiffly for her at the door, and said: What difference does it make if she stays fifteen minutes or an hour? She's already here, nothing else can happen. We haven't seen each other for a long time, and we still don't know how long it will be before we see each other again. I could argue that we're mother and daughter, and we have so much to say to each other, but all I ask is: what difference does it make?

He frowned, and didn't speak for a few seconds. Fine, you can have a little longer, but I'll be back in forty-five minutes. And then I'll have to ask your mother to leave.

They hugged again and now they began to talk, telling each other everything they hadn't in the last fifteen minutes. Her mother told her about her brother and sisters, the grandchildren that had been born, her dad and his business, the work they'd had done to the house because of a leak, her tiredness, but also her walks along the beachfront, how she liked to watch the sun set in Leblon and get out and about when her body let her. She, on the other hand, didn't have a whole lot of news. Most of all, she talked about the tension, the fear, and the places they hid, but she hoped her situation would improve from there on. Her mother knew she had been taken prisoner, but she didn't know (or want to know?) what had happened in there. It was too much for her motherly heart, her fragile body. One day the daughter would tell her everything, because she believed that pain should be voiced, that silence was dangerous. She'd tell her everything that took place while she was locked up, but not today, not on this day of reunions and goodbyes, not after so long without seeing each other. She didn't want to worry her mother unnecessarily. She'd wait for the right moment, when she was in exile — no longer in Costa Rica but in Portugal. When her mother went to visit her and they had time, lots of time, to themselves — not the time on the watch of the vice consul, the gentleman who returned punctually to say their hour was up, he'd been too lenient already. The time had come, they'd have to part and say their goodbyes, but not to worry, as it wouldn't be long before they'd be able to see each other again. When he finished speaking he lowered his head, knowing they'd be giving each other a parting embrace, hugging tightly, stroking each other's faces lovingly, and crying because they already missed each other, as mothers and daughters do when they have to say goodbye.

There was no love between us. There was fear.

When you left, it was as if I'd known from the beginning. Yes, you can say that everyone knows, we all know, death is our only certainty. But there is something beyond this certainty, an even bigger certainty, greater than the certainty of death. And that was where my fear came from. When you died, it was a confirmation, as if death had been lying in wait for us the whole time, watching our every move. When it came, I knew it had to be like that; I'd always known, from the outset. But knowing it hadn't brought me any peace. On the contrary, it brought me the deepest fear, the most acute outrage, agonising discomfort.

I want to scream, but my mouth is gagged. My body lying on the bed in this foul, lonely room is a body in silence.

I doubt there is a person alive who has never felt the urge to kill someone. Perhaps few have felt it as intensely as I have, it is true, but I imagine that at least once in life everyone feels the macabre desire to see the fear of death in someone else's eyes. I hatched plots during my nights of insomnia. I didn't just want you to die — I wanted to be the one to kill you. I wanted to see the desperation in your eyes when you realised you were going to die by my hand. Like in a film or a book. Like in one of those cheap newspapers that are available every morning, whose cover story is a bizarre murder: a son who killed his mother, or a husband who killed his wife after catching her in bed with another man. I wanted to be the one in the news the next day: Young Woman Kills Boyfriend During Fight. All planned — the fight, the place, the weapon, the motive (self-defence: he killed me first). Sometimes I'd stare at your sleeping body, your snoring keeping me awake, the air blasting its way out of your mouth, and I'd wonder what it was like to perforate someone's stomach, to see their blood spurt out, their life escaping, slipping through my fingers. Sometimes hours would pass and I'd still be staring at you. Sometimes you'd wake up and ask: What's wrong?

Nothing, I just can't sleep.

Then you'd pull me to you and press your body to mine, side on, legs entwined, and kiss my neck. You'd softly whisper words that I barely understood and fall back asleep. Huddled there in your arms, I'd continue plotting, just waiting for the first light of day.

I went to Portugal to discover my origins and what I discovered was something else: don't be afraid of the word love. He told me this with his green eyes almost scorching mine. He said the word even though he knew he didn't love me (not yet), and love rang out in the room, echoing. I wanted to catch the sentence, trap its sounds in my arms. I don't know if I've ever been afraid of love, but the word, at large in the room like that, had never sounded so sweet. Don't be afraid of the word love.