Becoming Marta Page 13

  A year later they were married.

  37

  The Park

  After parting ways with Adriana, Mau returned to the hotel and knocked on Marta’s door, but she didn’t answer. Back in his room he called her phone and her room every ten minutes until he fell asleep. When he woke, he tried to reach her again but still got no answer. He was used to Marta’s disappearances. Sometimes a month would pass without hearing from her, but that had never happened while they were traveling together. He felt more responsible for and bothered by her than usual.

  He left the hotel. He planned to walk along Fifth Avenue, but the park caught his attention, so he decided to go in. The leaves on some of the trees had started to turn; not that Mau knew the names of any of the trees. He wandered along the pedestrian walkways, passing a noisy carousel that played an instrumental version of “Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da.” He came to an open field and saw a sign confirming that it was Sheep Meadow, where Adriana would shoot her photos. Mau crossed the path and bumped across a sculpture of a certain Mr. Webster. Was that the man from the dictionary? Mr. Webster’s pedestal did not clear up the matter.

  He headed north along a path. Soon he heard music. A solitary guitar accompanied an off-key voice singing “Imagine.” He followed the melody until he came to a circular mosaic of black and white tiles. Smack in the middle was the word IMAGINE. Someone had placed flowers and rose petals along its edges.

  He imagined a Marta who was composed, normal, and tranquil. A Marta he had always believed existed. How many times had he been told that she was not worth the trouble, that he should forget about that lunatic woman, only to keep trying? It was not like he had a choice. He was attracted to her like a superpowerful magnet, like the Acme magnets he saw as a child in the Road Runner cartoons. But he knew that he could never, ever express his feelings if he wanted to stay by her side. Marta had only two reactions to amorous advances: total rejection, or acceptance for a brief period, just long enough to split open the suitor’s head and send him flying. Mau had no interest in that. His love for Marta was eternal. He wanted to watch her wake every morning, feel her naked back, and grow old with her. Imagine. Five years of imagining this and he had not tired of her, but he was growing weary of her impudent behavior. He had believed it was a thing of the past. She had seemed to recoup—until yesterday. It was already two in the afternoon.

  His phone rang. He answered so fast that he didn’t notice who was calling.

  “Mau,” said a voice that wasn’t Marta’s.

  He felt relieved, let down, and curious. “Who is it?”

  “It’s me, Adriana.”

  “Hey, how are you? Have you heard anything from Marta?”

  “No, I was going to ask you the same thing. Larry told me she went off with that guy Kauffman.”

  “Ah,” said Mau, “exactly her type.” Marta always ended up with rich, old, married men. Mau reasoned that these love affairs were displaced quests for her father, which would cease once Marta found her center.

  “Where are you?” asked Adriana.

  “In Strawberry Fields.”

  “Do you want to do something? Come over.”

  “Give me your address again. I’ll grab a taxi.”

  “Take the subway. It’s right there by the Dakota.”

  “The what?”

  “The Dakota, where John Lennon lived, where they killed him.”

  “Oh,” Mau said, having no idea what she meant.

  “The subway is right there. Take the B, the orange line, at Seventy-Second and get off on Grand Street. I’ll wait for you there.”

  They walked along Grand Street to Orchard and turned back along Rivington. The neighborhood seemed odd to Mau. It felt like Havana or Puerto Rico. Among the bodegas and old ladies seated on rocking chairs were modern stores brimming with character and restaurants with sophisticated fronts. They stopped at Teany, a tea café sunk a few steps below street level. The menu, handed to them by a waiter with a shaved head and arms covered in tattoos, listed hundreds of teas.

  “This city is amazing. Did you know that there are white teas?” Adriana said, flipping through the pages that detailed countless varieties and surprising infusions.

  Adriana ordered white tea and Mau had English Breakfast. They also ordered two scones, which came with a type of cream that was neither sweet nor tart. It was thick but melted in your mouth and tasted of cold milk. It paired perfectly with the scone’s dry, crumbly texture.

  Mau felt comfortable with Adriana. There was something natural and relaxed about her that put him at ease. He thought of himself as a trooper, a steady soldier who could stand firm during hours or weeks, but it was easier when he didn’t feel that he was being evaluated or judged. With Adriana, Mau sensed the thin but perpetual layers of anguish begin to fade.

  They devoured the scones. Since Marta was on both their minds, they avoided discussing her, exchanging opinions about the city instead. It was as though each knew a different New York. Mau knew the stores, Adriana the museums, Mau the restaurants, and Adriana the streets.

  “Come with me,” Adriana said when they had finished their tea. “There’s a store nearby that I’ve wanted to check out for days. I was going to take Marta . . .”

  They went in, and Adriana broke off from Mau to check out one of the displays. It took him a minute to realize that the store sold vibrators. There were so many shapes and colors that it looked like a candy shop. One looked like a lipstick, others were small and portable. Some had innocent, childish designs, like a Hello Kitty head, but there were also realistic and even surrealistic ones that might have been designed by Salvador Dalí. There were sophisticated stainless-steel ones with accessories, and others that seemed discreet or humorous. They all had small signs with cursive lettering suggesting their possible uses. The store even had an entire section of waterproof vibrators.

  Mau could not believe it. So this was what women did while they were getting ready to go out. Envisioning his female friends with a toy in the bathtub, he started getting aroused. He grabbed the one that was in front of him, a sort of five-speed submergible torpedo in bougainvillea pink.

  “Do you want that one?” asked Adriana.

  Mau hadn’t noticed that she’d been watching him up close, nearly pushed up against his back. Lost in his daydream, he’d completely forgotten her.

  “No,” he laughed, instinctively checking the bulge pressing up against his jeans. “I already have one.”

  “I know,” said Adriana. “But I thought since we’re here just the same and since neither you nor I . . .” She wasn’t sure what she was doing or what she intended to say or how to continue. “As friends.”

  “As friends,” Mau repeated. He went to the cashier and bought the vibrator.

  He could not make his legs move quickly enough for the three seemingly eternal blocks to Adriana’s apartment. No sooner were they in the door than they rolled on the floor in an embrace, fighting to take off their clothes. The urge to be naked was stronger than any other. They did it in all three rooms and tried every position they could think of. Exhausted, they lay together, Adriana’s head on Mau’s shoulder.

  “Would you like to?” asked Adriana.

  Mau raised his right eyebrow.

  “Do you want to leave the hotel and move in here? Why waste so much money?”

  “As friends,” Mau said mischievously.

  “As friends.”

  It was already night when he arrived back at the hotel, well past checkout time. He had a message from Marta: Dinner at La Grenouille. 8:00 p.m. He threw on a suit and tie and ran out.

  The restaurant’s entrance overflowed with vases loaded with hydrangeas and carefully arranged branches. Mau caught sight of Marta seated on the main banquette. She was wearing a black sleeveless dress with a plunging neckline. She had on sunglasses even though it was evening. In front of her was the fat, bald man from the previous night. In an ice bucket next to the table, two bottles of champagne. Mau left without knowing
if they’d seen him.

  That very night he packed his suitcase. The next morning he checked out of the hotel and left a cryptic message for Marta. It was his turn to disappear. Imagine.

  38

  Insomnia

  Used. She felt used. Like a gum wrapper—or worse, like a piece of gum that’s been chewed up and spat out. She felt dog-eared and manhandled. They’d taken advantage of her. They’d seen her coming. She felt like the log that taco vendors use to chop meat on—the one that gets pounded with a hatchet until it’s covered with dents. Did they love her? No.

  Adriana had used her for money—Mau, too. He was always by her side, except when she’d needed him. At Adriana’s exhibit, Marta had spotted them holding hands and leaving together. Since that time on the yacht when Adriana gave him a massage, Marta had known that Mau was interested in her, but she didn’t say anything. Mau had used her to get close to Adriana, and just like that, he left.

  How many times had her mother warned her? Every day of her life, Marta’s mom had reminded her that one way or another everyone was after their money. Friendly overtures were just a ploy to eventually ask for something. “Don’t let them take advantage of you,” Marti would say. “Never discuss money. Stay with your social equals. Marry someone from the same class.”

  “Do you know what it’s like not to trust the man with whom you share your life?” Marti had said once. “Money is power, Marta, that’s all it is. The only thing it buys is power. A house, possessions—these are expressions of power. And power, my child, must be used wisely. It must be used for good. Understand? God granted us this power, and we have a responsibility.”

  God. Had God given it to them? Would God take it away if they didn’t use it wisely? Were they some special divine breed in charge of distributing wealth? Surely, that’s how her mother had seen it.

  So, what would she do with that wealth? When Marta bought Adriana’s painting, it lost all value. It just became one more object. She wished she could be like her mother and relate only to objects. They were less treacherous than people. What power did her wealth confer on her? She could buy whatever she desired. And? Time. She didn’t have to work. She thought she was helping her friends, but look what happened when she tried to be good.

  “Mommy, why don’t I have brothers?”

  “Honey, you know we could not. Rather, I could not.”

  “But I’m bored, Mommy.”

  “My love, did you know that I, too, never had brothers? Would you like me to buy you a pony?”

  They never told Marta the truth. Every two or three years she’d ask the same question, and her mother always had a thoughtful answer at the ready. Because of that question, Marta had learned the art of horsemanship and gone camping; it’s why they’d purchased the yacht and the house in Vail. Because of that question they’d eventually sent her away to boarding school in Switzerland. These palliatives worked for a while but never entirely eliminated her loneliness. Like a callus, some days it bothered her more than others.

  For a long time anorexia was her close companion. Hunger both anesthetized her and kept her company. Above all else it had distracted her from other matters. Lacking nourishment, her body focused entirely on food. Now that she’d started eating again, she missed other things, a pile of things that could not be bought.

  During these nights alone in New York, she drank in front of the television in her hotel room, sometimes watching porn, which disgusted and excited her at the same time. Eventually, she’d fall asleep.

  One night her well-fed loneliness grew obese and began weighing heavily on her. She did not want to go up to her room. She drank martinis at the hotel bar on the thirty-fifth floor, with its views of the city extending out from the park. It was a cloudy night and only hazy lights were visible past the fog. A blond man with pockmarked skin approached her. In rough English he asked how much she charged. Marta guessed he was Russian. She didn’t turn him down immediately. She thought about it but feared that she would not live up to his expectations. She gestured no with a slight movement of her head. After that it became harder and harder to sleep. The same ideas obsessed her. She was alone. She’d managed to scare away those who loved her. No, they’d never really loved her. No one. Never. Not even her mother had loved her. What should she do now?

  The insomnia became unbearable. She called the hotel’s doctor for a sleeping pill. The doctor was a young, attractive Filipino. Marta tried to seduce him, but he handed her a prescription and ran out. The pharmacy called the police when Marta refused to wait for her prescription. It finally dawned on her that she would be arrested if she continued behaving like a rabid dog. She stopped screaming, “Leave me alone, you fucking pigs!” and left with her head bowed.

  When she got back to the hotel, she cried until her pillow was soaked. She could not remember the last time she’d done that.

  39

  The Honeymoon

  Marti went to the bathroom to put on her silk lace camisole. She’d spent three months readying her trousseau. It was not enough to be a virgin on her honeymoon; she had to show up in new clothes, better than any she’d worn before. Everything right down to the last sock had to be brand new. She’d gone on three shopping trips with her mother and cousins, two to Houston and one to New York. Her friends admired her purchases: twenty camisoles in total, a different one for each night, folded in linen bags that were embroidered with her initials. Her suitcases, also brand new, were packed weeks before the wedding. She emerged from the bathroom looking pale, with a terry-cloth robe over another silk one and the camisole, which now seemed too thin. Her sweaty skin spilled out. Shivering, she slipped into bed without taking off her robes and pulled the sheets and blankets up to her ears.

  “Are you sick?” asked Pedro, who was watching a soccer game on television.

  “Yes. I think I’m catching something.” Marti knew it was nerves, but she wasn’t sure how to control them. Besides, she was exhausted. The wedding had lasted twelve hours. She hadn’t slept a wink on the plane. Now here she was with her love on her wedding night, and she wanted nothing more than to sleep and perhaps to be held.

  “Rest,” he said, fearing that she really was getting sick. “We have many days ahead of us.” He turned off the light on the night table and asked whether she minded if he continued watching the game.

  Marti, who longed for a hug and couldn’t stand television, nodded and then pretended to sleep. Pedro lowered the volume.

  The following night he tried to make love to her, but Marti burst out in tears and was inconsolable. The night after that they tried doing it with the lights off. He touched her and tried to seduce her, like he’d done with Marisol, but when he got on top with his stiff penis, Marti curled up like a piglet and remained in a fetal position until she fell asleep. Another evening Pedro suggested that she drink a little more than usual. That night she vomited.

  During the day they visited sites recommended by the Michelin Guide. Marti took pictures and got excited seeing the Giottos, Rafaels, and Michelangelos. She tried to make the most of the trip. She made a game of picking out the Titians but would inevitably si sbagliava, as the Italians say. She’d been taught to identify Titians by the way he painted red velvet with exacting precision, but in the museum she realized that he was not the only one capable of such execution. Pedro feigned interest and followed along, staying out of the way. He knew that sooner or later it would be evening—not that it mattered, since she felt no passion for him. They were always together and they took care to hold hands, kiss on street corners, and ask passersby to take pictures of them. The fact that their honeymoon was a disaster remained their secret.

  In Rome they went to the Vatican for an audience with Pope Paul VI, who gave them his blessing. It was to be a private audience, and Marti, following her mother’s instructions, wore gloves and a black veil. In reality there were over fifty people dressed in every conceivable manner. Marti was disappointed. She had imagined being alone with the Holy Father and hoped t
hat his presence would somehow solve their problems.

  One afternoon Marti went shopping but asked Pedro not to come with her. She felt uncomfortable making him wait. She went into several stores on the Via Veneto. She bought a Valentino dress for her friend Sofía’s wedding and a Gucci handbag, with its trademark red-and-green belt. She kept walking, letting the city guide her, and was soon in front of an American bookstore. She went in, looking for books about sex, turning nervously toward the door, fearful that someone would see her. What did she want to know? She couldn’t explain it. She wanted to understand the sexual act. No one had explained it to her, and it wasn’t as natural as she had imagined. What had she imagined? That it was like a kiss, but in pajamas. She hadn’t even considered that it was done in the nude. She disliked having no clothes on and liked even less seeing her husband naked. She found several books that satisfied her curiosity. One, How to Make Love like a Roman, demonstrated various sexual positions. The photographs were not explicit, and Marti liked seeing the bodies interlaced, some with two or more men or women in finely furnished apartments. Feeling ashamed, she bought the book and hid it stealthily.

  Locked in the privacy of her bathroom while pretending to get ready, Marti scanned the book—but not without praying first. Little by little she let herself be seduced by its images. She started kissing Pedro with more passion and began to feel aroused. Pedro also started touching her better, or so it seemed to her.

  She came back from the honeymoon still intact, still a virgin, but they weren’t sad. Every night they came a little further along, and at least the tears had stopped. Pedro had a bad case of blue balls. He was frustrated, but there was a part of him that was patient and confident. Patient in his belief that the moment would arrive, and confident that Marti would manage to overcome her inhibitions.