Three Women in a Mirror (14 page)

“Franz, answer me: would you have loved me if I could not give you a child?”

“I never doubted that you would give me one.”

“But I did.”

“You are mistaken about yourself, Hanna. You are much more than you believe yourself to be.”

This exclamation troubled me so much that it ended our conversation.

“You are much more than you believe yourself to be.” Franz had just explained the most important thing to me.

Have you thought about this, Gretchen? We go beyond what we believe we are or, out of pride or a lack of humility, we deny it. We prefer to reduce ourselves to what is visible, a commanding intuition or an obedient body.

However, my mind has turned out to be more than what I know about it; and my body, too.

The mind is like a ship, and it cannot be reduced just to its crow's nest, my consciousness; up on deck, it has its reserves—memory—and workshops—imagination—and a boiler room—our appetites—and corridors and stairways that go down to even less penetrable zones—the hold where the intermittent light of our dreams barely reaches, and totally obscure underpinnings. When all is said and done, the crow's nest of consciousness only constitutes a tiny external and superficial spot between what comes from the world and what rises up from the depths in our hold.

The body represents more than what we perceive of it, and it is vaster than those rare parts that are accessible to our sensations or our commands. Every day it breathes, sleeps, and digests without us; from birth it has grown without our involvement, and it will get old without our being able to stop it. Just now, for example, behind my back my body is manufacturing a human being inside me, about whom I know nothing, neither its sex, nor its personality, nor its appearance. I am neither the author nor the witness of this child, I am solely its container. What a magical and sublime situation: something grand is happening inside me, something grand is happening because of me, and yet this something would not happen without me.

“You are much more than you believe yourself to be.”

Do you ever get the impression, Gretchen, that you are being governed by unknown, occult forces, or even animal instincts, and that the roots of who you are go deep into the earth to a place you cannot grasp?

Franz has removed my previous uncertainties. I no longer question myself: I reign.

I reign at the heart of the hive. Everyone scurries around me, not only the servants whose job it is, but also Franz, his parents, his uncles and aunts: if I even so much as yawn, they bring me a cushion so that I may take a nap; if I click my tongue, they bring a carafe of water; if I want my book, Franz rushes to fetch it from the coffee table. They are forever asking me what I want. Recently, I practically forced myself to show some signs of “the cravings of a pregnant woman,” in order to satisfy the devotion of those around me. Their faces light up with pride when they manage the impossible, above all Franz, the most zealous among them. Now when I have my heart set on strawberries in January or winter cherries, I carefully pester my entire entourage! If I had no whims, I would disappoint . . .

The world has become much simpler: it revolves around my full belly. The women of the family come to visit it, and are moved when they touch my voluminous form; they are delighted when I wolf down their strudels, they show their compassion if I droop with fatigue. I can tell they are not faking their enthusiasm. I must remind them of happy days . . .

Perhaps they also feel reassured because—and I am sorry—I must have offended them when I said I didn't care whether I had children or not. I was too boastful when I was hiding my pain; I played the rebel, implying a different way of life. I claimed that I would not miss a family, that a woman could be fulfilled by other things than procreation. “Being sterile is more than luck, it's providence,” I even went so far as to say. But now my quiet joy shows me that I was clearly bluffing. Exit the agitator! Farewell the revolutionary! The rebel has fallen back in line—I have joined the army of reproductive females.

Dear Gretchen, I delight in my condition. Henceforth, I know my purpose when I wake up in the morning: to manufacture life.

The days go by, all identical, all necessary, and I do not need to differentiate them artificially by going out or making appointments. Time has dilated with the skin on my belly, and duration is producing being.

I see myself as a tiny link in an infinite chain, and this infinitesimal place is enough for me; better still, it fulfills me. On my microscopic scale, I am part of the vast cycle, integrating myself in the cosmos, perpetuating it. It is comfortable, in fact, to carry out my woman's work: I am giving life after having received it, and later, I will become the guardian of it until it leaves me . . . Life preceded me, life will succeed me, but for the duration of my existence, life needs me.

In essence, the von Waldberg ladies were right: a woman becomes whole when she bears children. I had to feel it in my flesh and in my mind to understand it; before, it seemed odious to me, but now, no. People die every day, but I will create new ones. Maternity remains woman's destiny.

Oh! My Gretchen, I kiss you tenderly, for you have always been beyond me in wisdom. Even if I take you as my role model now and forever, I will never be able to catch up with you.

 

Your Hanna

David looked at Ethan.
Ethan looked at David.
Neither said anything, just stared implacably, facing each other like two statues.

Anny could not resist inviting Ethan to come in. Why not? A matter of being polite with the nurse. Of impressing him with her luxury. To show him her world, now that she'd spent two weeks in his. Her reasons, too numerous not to become muddled, hid the true reason.

Ethan and David . . . it reassured her to see them looking at each other, even though they were complete strangers.

But how could they ever get along? They belong to separate worlds. The only thing they have in common is me.

Amused and flattered, she was pleased with her capriciousness: the fact she could appreciate two young men who were so different.
I'm much more open than they are.

Enchanted by her discovery, she led them into the living room, and kept the conversation going while they shared a drink.

After halfheartedly playing along, David got to his feet and asked permission to leave them in order to finish his warm-up.

“Really nice to meet you,” he said to Ethan as he left the room.

That was not what he really thought and he didn't try to hide it. Anny suspected him of deliberately allowing his lack of enthusiasm to show, in order to get a message across: “I'm jealous of this tall blond dude and I'm out to defend my happiness,” or, “I don't give a damn about this guy and don't ever invite him again.”

She turned to Ethan.

“Why did you come?”

“To help you out.”

The simplicity of his declaration unnerved her. Rather than betray any emotion, she said, “Help me out? You feel that sorry for me?”

She expected him to start coming out with all sorts of indignant justifications, after which he would declare his love for her. But he was silent.

The longer the silence lasted the more Anny began to dread any declaration. What was going on? Silence gives consent . . . Did he really feel sorry for her? This was getting really annoying.

“What do you have to help me out with?”

“First of all, I wanted to see if your scars are healing properly.”

“Really? So you're filling in for Dr. Sinead . . . are you a doctor now?”

“No, but I can tell if something is getting infected. And then I wanted to know if you need a shot.”

She slumped into her armchair, her head in her hands, both surprised and delighted.

“You say you're against drugs, and now you're bringing me morphine?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

He fell silent again. This time, Anny was able to interpret his silence without difficulty: he was in love with her, simple as that! To be near her, he was betraying his own principles.

“That's just great,” she murmured.

“Why? Are you in pain? Do you need some?”

His features were distorted by worry. Anny felt like kissing him to thank him for so much concern.

“No, I'm not in pain. I'm having fun. As of today I'm back on set, everything went magnificently, I feel great.”

He got to his feet, reassured.

“If my presence here is pointless, I won't bother you anymore. Here's my phone number. Don't hesitate. Any time, day or night, just give a ring and I'll come.”

“Really?”

“Instead of calling your usual purveyors of poison, call me. You shouldn't be taking just any old stuff—insecticides, cocaine diluted with bicarbonate, horse stimulants or cocktails concocted by some sorcerer's apprentice. At least what I give you, you'll know what it is. Stop living like a guinea pig. Otherwise you'll end up looking like those tuna that swim near nuclear power plants.”

She burst out laughing.

“That has to be the first time anyone's ever compared me to a tuna!”

He turned around to face her, furious.

“Stop thinking you're better than me.”

She swallowed, stunned. He went on, “You are better, from a few points of view. You're talented, you have money and a dream body, but don't go thinking that means anything. From other points of view I am much better than you are, way beyond you.”

Torn between pleasure and curiosity, delighted by his expression “dream body,” Anny asked, “From what points of view?”

“Not today. Besides, you wouldn't get it.”

“I'm too stupid?”

“You're not ready.”

He had a long face: he was suddenly sorry he'd reacted so sharply.

“Forgive me. I don't have the right to speak to you like this. Especially in your home. I'm ashamed. Here, please, take my phone number.”

He stood up, but in spite of his height his discomfort had made him lose at least four inches.

As she took the scribbled piece of paper she almost gushed, “This is so romantic! No one has ever hit on me this way,” but she stopped herself because she suspected that if she scoffed at him she'd find herself on the receiving end of a few more cryptic sentences. Strangely enough, every time she made fun of Ethan, his response increased the influence he had over her.

As she walked him to the door, anxious at the thought that he was about to leave, she felt her legs tremble and she went back on her decision.

“Ethan, you were right: I'm going to need some morphine. The pressure of filming will subside, and so will the joy, and here with David, who just doesn't get it, I'll be full of anxiety.”

What sort of game was she playing? She couldn't help putting David into the picture, then nailing him, knowing that Ethan had no love lost for him; in spite of herself, she was setting them against each other.

Ethan nodded. From the warmth of his gaze she could tell that even though he didn't like supplying her with drugs he was glad he could be useful.

Anny pointed to the long narrow building by the swimming pool. They walked over there. Without a word, Ethan planted the needle in her skin.

 

In the days that followed, Anny showed up on time for all her shoots, displaying a professional conscientiousness the likes of which no one had ever seen from her before.

Afloat on a wave of happiness, she was finding her life as strange as it was fascinating. The public adored her, her job enchanted her, and the presence of two men in her life gave her balance. David played the lover, Ethan the friend, or if such typecasting seems overly melodramatic, David provided the pleasures of the body—as pleasant in bed as he was in the kitchen—and Ethan procured her peace of mind. To be sure, from time to time she caught herself thinking more often of Ethan than of David, feeding herself the excuse that Ethan didn't want anything from her, whereas David was too demanding: he loved to waltz around with her on his arm at fancy restaurants, he wanted to strut around at all the cocktail parties, and under the pretext that he was brimming with love and pride he demanded they make their affair public.

One evening when David was in New York for an audition and she was waiting for Ethan, Anny exposed the situation clearly to herself:
Ethan wants nothing more than to be of use to me, but David uses me.

And she immediately understood that she had made a mistake: it wasn't that she had two men in her life, one for the body and the other for the soul, no, she was seeing two men because she hadn't realized that only one of them mattered—yes, only one. Ethan had to replace David.
What an idiot! It's Ethan I need, not David.

Constantly checking her watch, she waited restlessly until eight o'clock, which was when he had promised to come.

When he arrived, she threw her arms around him. Awkward, embarrassed, not knowing how to deal with this body clinging to him, Ethan submitted to her embrace, blushed brick red, then made his way sheepishly toward the swimming pool.

He opened his bag, took out a syringe and shook the vial.

Anny stopped his hand.

“Wait, David is away.”

“Really?”

He finished his prep.

“Don't give me my dose right away. I'd like to make the most—”

“The most of what?”

She narrowed her eyelids and bit her right cheek.

“Make the most of you.”

He paused, stunned, needle in the air. She moved closer to him, heavy, sensual. He shivered. She sought his lips.

“No?”

Their lips were about to meet when Ethan drew back.

“Why?” he said.

She assumed his resistance was just playfulness and she snuggled up to him. He pushed her away, gently but firmly.

“Why?” he said again.

“Come on, Ethan, I'm sure you want it,” she purred.