Gonzalo Torne - Divorce Is in the Air

When I imagine those parties where the furniture fades into the background, I see myself standing among people whose names and features blur together. Entire hours have vanished, and what a bore it would be if we ever had to relive the past in real time. But Helen was sure she had seen me one night while I was holding court, seated like a Chinese emperor (an odd association) and attended by two beautiful girls (she herself was feeling ugly that day), sipping my gin haughtily, my sunglasses still on (it was cool then not to take them off inside). She didn’t even notice the ironed handkerchief I’d tucked into my breast pocket (in imitation of and homage to Dad), nor the toasty shade of my jacket, nor the waves drawn in the cloth of my white shirt with a very fine blue thread — sartorial details I’d calculated with the meticulousness of a nightingale choosing branches, leaves, and plants for its nest: mating rituals.

So I guess she was already thinking about me when she leaned against the upright piano as if it were the arm of a couch, and I guess her defiant smile was meant for me. I caught her turning her head several times — she seemed fascinated by her image in the mirror. She was having one of those evenings (later I learned to recognize them by the vibration of the air around her) when she felt comfortable in her skin, when the contours of her body coincided with her spirit’s intentions. She seemed to harbor a patient fury — a girl with a mind boiling furiously. If she looked so relaxed it was because she’d granted herself some time to calculate what her ambitions were worth, and where she should channel the energy she generated with those healthy young thighs. She was after someone who would help her propel her life forward, and judging from the way she looked at the light striking the folds of my jacket, she was reaching a conclusion. That’s why she exhaled the smoke so slowly (enough that she thought she did it slowly); that’s why those dark corpuscles in the blue of her irises were set in motion. It was something subtler and less intuitive than rating my attractiveness — she was trying to see herself through my body, catch a glimpse of what her future would be like if she were to mingle it with mine.

She emitted a sharper frequency than the other Madrid friends Vicente had invited. Together they composed a fuzzy and fanciful scene: figurines, fairies, and elves, ornamental effigies on a frame within which Helen swayed to the beat of the cloying music, full of that otherworldly American self-sufficiency. I can still see her moving among the minor players like a squirrel scampering among branches. I can see her now, holding her glass and wearing an aquamarine dress that was probably only green. I see her leaning with that torsion of the hips that is so her, as if propping her buttock atop her thigh….Now she’s wearing a dress the color of acorns, saffron, and beeswax. But no, I haven’t bought her that dress yet, we still haven’t even been introduced.

We had a conversation, but the sentences we used were important not for their semantic value but for the part they played in the attack strategy I’d established before ever opening my mouth: I wanted to leave with that girl. I went to look for her coat (an unbearable combination of stripes and plaid) and I said good-bye to Vicente, host and eternal geography student. He’d papered the living room wall with an enormous, detailed map of the mountains surrounding Madrid, the topography like isobars on weather charts. When I see Helen’s figure against that background, my imagination, falling victim to the euphoria and ambiguity of the picture, will always think of that modest map as a hyperrealist painting of brain circuits. Glass in hand, Helen looked like an idea formed by the nervous stimuli of those neurons. She looked taller than she was (that was the only day I ever saw her without having taken a tactile measure of her body), and so young she had only to reach out her arm to effortlessly touch the end of her adolescence. And why not admit it: standing there, holding both of our coats, I felt a fearful hand grip my throat. I was afraid I wouldn’t be alive enough for her.

I ruled out taking her to my apartment, so things went a step or two down toward more sordid settings. To make up for it I spared her public transportation, which was how she usually got around. We hailed a cab and headed off toward a house in Delicias where they rented rooms by the hour. It was two in the morning, and La Castellana was still humming. I remember how the car’s shocks were so worn out that the undercarriage scraped against the damp pavement, I remember all those fences Madrid has around gardens, houses, offices, banks — the vegetation of a secret city — and I remember I was ashamed to take her into a rathole where the same play had been performed by different actors over a good ten years. I diverted the taxi toward a decent hotel.

The same play! I had no idea back then about the diversity of sexual appetites, the violence and the good they can do you. I was only a child, and though I passed myself off as an expert I wasn’t at the level of my peers, who had scrawled their first lusty paragraphs on the blank pages of prostitutes’ bodies. I only had to imagine that mechanical touch, the professional who kept one eye on the clock and added up the bill, to know that brothels weren’t for me. My sexual history was dominated by mutual nervousness and occasional girlfriends. Now I was going to face my first American girl with only a few basic tricks (I knew about the sensitive zones of the neck, the ears; I wasn’t sure if that one girl’s armpits had just been a personal preference). It hadn’t been even three years since I’d discovered the benefits of caressing the inner thighs and the vulva, of summoning between her lips with my middle finger the dampness so crucial to coaxing out her retractive organ — my great ally in that labyrinth of folds. If Helen let me — her attitude wasn’t like other girls’, with whose modesty I had to negotiate every elastic band — I was pretty sure the trick would work. It was a physical reflex, like closing your eyes when someone threatens to throw something in your face. Though I must say, if I thought about it much, natural lubrication still provoked discomfort, admiration, and a bit of apprehension in me. When I opened the taxi door for Helen, she managed to step onto the curb wrapped in an aura of innocence, as if that night we’d do no more than embrace.

The moon looked like a newly crystallized liquid. Helen was lively from the wine and the dancing and the fresh air, and she didn’t stay still for a second while I was checking in. Under the elevator’s light I had the thought that the cross formed by her septum and cheekbones was the skeleton of an unformed soul. Within Helen flowed all sorts of contradictory, intense emotions. Her turbulence didn’t repel me in the least, I didn’t kid myself about that. From her very first kiss (avid, ferocious, American) I knew I preferred her to a fully formed woman with clear and fixed ideas. It’s good when you find a simpler person, one whose entire story you can contain in a telling, and experience, for once, the power of the storyteller.

Helen didn’t complain about the dim bathroom or the paint peeling from the ceiling. If the smell of disinfectant bothered her, she kept it to herself. Like those little animals that focus the spotlight of their vision on a shiny object, she was fascinated by the rectangular shape of the bed, as if the sheets were emanating an inviting air. But she was so confident inside that body straining against the fabric of her jeans (who knows where that dress went?), there was really no confusing her with some little wallaby or wildcat — she was no shy creature.

She dropped backward onto the mattress, and the creak of the springs made the muscles in my back tense up. She laughed, she was laughing and her marvelous laughter filled that hovel to the brim, and she let me undress her and we fell upon each other, fascinated by the provocative design of our flesh, the indentations so wisely placed, the warm openings. It was like spreading out enormous wings that swept away the habits of everyday thought, all the coldness and distrust. I don’t remember the sequence of events or any details, but I know that at some point I summoned up my courage and it was as if my glans were searching for something in Helen’s mouth; she pushed me away with open palms and we fell laughing onto the sheets. The pupils of the girl who would be my first wife were moving under a watery film. I embraced her, trembling at the intuition that we were on the brink of something, only we didn’t know what. The path lay hidden by a whimsical orography, and we laughed because we felt complicit enough to travel it together.