A. Barrett - Love Is Power, or Something Like That - Stories

After lunch was over and he’d withdrawn to his bedroom, the summons that he had ceased to expect was announced. His brother delivered the message with a serious expression fixed on his happy child’s face, and then he added:

Mama is very angry with you.

He entered the sitting room to find his mother and father waiting for him. He drew up beside their seats and thrust his hands into his trouser pockets, to hide their trembling.

Your mother is very angry with you — and so am I, his father said. Then he waved to the opposite chair: Take the weight off your feet.

With a quick glance at his mother, he sat down, and fixed his gaze on his father.

His father said, Your mother and I have been discussing your cousin’s behavior, and to tell you the truth, we’re tired of it. But your conduct is also giving us cause for concern. Why won’t you listen when we tell you not to call her that — he turned to his wife — what is she, darling, a singer? — and turned back to his son— that Colombian singer’s name? Not allowing time for a reply, he continued: The only good thing to come out of that country is Garcia Marquez. By the way, have you read his latest—

Papa, stick to the topic, his mother interposed.

Sorry, dear. He frowned at his son. We already have enough trouble from that young lady — we don’t need any more from you. So don’t call her by that name again, okay?

But Papa, it’s just a nickname!

His father exchanged looks with his wife, licked his lips, cleared his throat, and lowered his voice. It’s a bit more serious than that.

How?

His mother took charge of the silence. Look here, she said, in a voice that shook with contained anger, since you’re now too big to abide by the rules we set in this house, maybe it’s time you moved out. You have a job and you have savings, you can afford to pay rent. Go and be lord and master in your own house.

At his mother’s words, he knew it was over, the fight was lost. To hell with the stupid name, he thought. He would do what he had to do to remain where he had to be.

He arranged his face into a mask of pleading. But, Mama, you know I’m saving up for my master’s, he said in a subdued voice. I can’t afford to take out of my savings to pay for an apartment. You know that.

Now we’re getting somewhere, his mother said, and leaned forward in her chair. So open your ears and listen. As long as you’re my son and you live under my roof, you must obey me. She smacked her palm against the armrest to emphasize her next words. From today, you have to stop calling her by that name.

He met her gaze, then dropped his eyes. I hear you, Mama, he said.

That night, after dinner, he sent her a text message to meet him in the grove of plantain trees by the canal behind the house. She sent back an instant, one-letter reply. K.

He waited beside the tallest plantain tree, which was stooped with fruit. There was a strong breeze, and the big, fanlike leaves waved and rustled above his head and cast swooping shadows on the rough ground.

He’d begun to worry — then she appeared. She lit her path with the screen light of her mobile phone, and when he whispered her name, she increased her pace, scrunching dead leaves underfoot.

Shakira, Shakira! she said with a chiding tone as she drew up to him. She stuck her phone in the waistband of her denim miniskirt, and then stood before him with her arms akimbo and her weight resting on one hip.

He reached out to hold her waist, then drew her forward. She resisted his pull, twisting from side to side and beating his shoulders lightly with her fists. His mouth bumped her nose, her cheek, her chin, before locking onto her lips. She moaned in protest; then opened her teeth and leaned against him.

When they drew apart, he said, That’s what I called you about. I can’t call you Shakira anymore.

Her shoulders stiffened. Why?

Mama spoke to me this afternoon. She warned me that if I call you Shakira again, I’ll have to pack out. So I told her I wouldn’t.

She snorted with anger. Okay, leave me alone, she said in a stinging voice, and dropped her hands to pry open his grip.

Don’t be like that. Wait, wait —what do you want me to do? Her fingers dug into his skin, so he released her waist, and caught her wrist. If I disobey Mama, I’ll have to leave. Then what will happen to us?

She turned her face aside and said in a flat voice: I don’t know. I don’t care.

Stop acting like a spoiled child, this is serious, he said. He placed his palm against her cheek and turned her face toward him with gentle pressure. Her eyes glittered with resentment. When he stroked the curve of her jaw, murmuring candyfloss words, a teardrop broke from her lashes and rolled down, wetting his hand.

Leave me alone, I want to go, she said.

Please.

I said leave me alone!

The shrillness of her cry startled him into letting go. She turned to leave, but he ran ahead of her and spread out his arms, blocking her path.

Stop it, Shakira. Okay, I give in. I’ll call you the name.

She halted, raised her hand to flick away her tears, and beamed at him. He was wary of the flux of her moods, so he left his arms outspread, in case she tried to bolt. When she walked up and rested her forehead against his chest, he embraced her with force.

This is what we’ll do. .

He would call her Shakira, but only when they were alone; he would search for an apartment, so they could be alone together. She interrupted his words to say that she would run away if he left, that his parents were wasting their time if they thought they could control her by punishing him — and then, in a lower, unsteady voice, she said that she would follow him to his new house if he wanted. After she spoke, his arms dropped from her shoulders, he stepped back, and came up against a tree. Then he asked her if she meant it.

I do.

He spun round and slapped the tree in joy. He turned, lifted her off the ground and whirled her around, then pushed her against the tree, and kissed her laughing wet lips; then dropped to his knees, pressed his head against her skirt, and kissed her. When his face pushed under her skirt, her giggles caught in her throat. She stiffened, and begged him to stop, her hands pushing, pulling his head. He lurched to his feet and smeared her lips with the smell of herself, then drew back his head to ask her, his voice guttural, if he should. She said, no please, no please, but made no effort to break away, as his weight trapped her against the tree, his hands squeezed and prodded, and his lips covered her face with a snail trail of saliva. Yes please, he said in a whispery simoom voice, and tugged her hand downwards. At the touch of his flesh she opened her mouth in a soundless cry and fell against him; then burst into tears, her shoulders shaking.

He released her hand, took a step backward, and zippered his trousers. He watched in silence as she drew herself up, tried to walk away, stumbled and threw out her hand to steady herself, then turned round and hid her face against the tree. When her sobs abated to the occasional sniffle, he said, I’m sorry, I lost control, don’t cry, nothing happened. He approached her, put his hand on her shoulder, then arranged her clothes. He stooped to pick her phone from where it had fallen, and handed it to her, then placed his hands on her hips, pressed his mouth against her hair, and said: Tell me the truth, are you a virgin?

She nodded. Her hair scrubbed his face.

She didn’t appear for breakfast or dinner, and she didn’t take his phone calls or reply to his text messages for the three days that followed. The first day, Monday, at the dinner table, when his mother sent his brother to call her, she sent back word that she was ill. Tuesday was his brother’s birthday, his eleventh, and after the candles were blown out, the wishes made, he sent the birthday boy to her room with a wedge of cake, a cold Coke, and a stapled note. He awoke on Wednesday morning to find the note slipped under his door, unopened. Wednesday evening, when he arrived from the office, he met his father in the upstairs hallway and asked him in a by-the-way tone if he had seen her.