Arturo Fontaine - La Vida Doble

And then the fear of my body; fear of its desires, then, the desire at its core, in its hidden depths and cavities. And the humiliation of that market of little virgin whores in the parties and clubs, which our mothers prepared us for — with help from hairdressers, stylists, makeup artists, and aestheticians — marinating our bodies as if in a stew, transforming them so we could seduce brutish teenagers who dream of animal sex and flee from intimacy. I certainly couldn’t make friends with either boys or girls at those animal markets.

I grew up alone and separate. I had the feeling that I was inert, and I needed to keep myself soft like clay, always soft, waiting and waiting for the man to arrive who would be able to give me shape. Because in spite of everything, I wanted my Pygmalion to appear, even if he was nothing but a beautiful animal.

But I didn’t like the way I looked. I was pained by the women whose looks I did like, the pretty ones, the ones who felt men’s eyes following them. I was saddened by other women’s beauty. I wished I could just deflower myself. My mother would stay working at the hospital until very late. Her duty was to the sick. Her daughter would just have to understand. My mother never created a relaxed atmosphere where I could be myself. She didn’t know how. This was never more obvious than when she took it upon herself to forcibly construct that “homelike atmosphere” and would start to make dinner, asking me to light a fire. My mother didn’t like how I looked, and that made her feel desperate. She would have liked to have a very beautiful daughter. Who wouldn’t? She used to inspect my hairstyle and would always suggest a change. The change that could make up for the beauty I was lacking. She says that to me with the cold calm behind which she hides her frustration. She says it while putting on her glasses and peering at me in the mirror with the same harsh seriousness she has when she looks at X-rays. She comments on my eye shadow, gives advice. She speaks like a doctor prescribing medicine. Then she smooths a lock of hair yet again, and her gaze becomes even harsher, as if she hates me for not being the beauty she wanted. That’s how I feel. The pimples that sprout on my face drive her crazy. She wants to squeeze them. She can’t resist. Same with my blackheads. She has to pinch them out of my skin. She can’t resist. She’d use her teeth if she could. She’s like a monkey picking lice.

And finally, my great love — because desire creates the object of desire — came to me, came to me while I was studying French language and literature at university and reading that it’s the Devil holds the strings that move us, and adoring the Black Sun of Melancholy. I recited idiotically to my stupid and beautiful animal: J’ai tant rêvé de toi que tu perds ta réalité, I’ve dreamed of you so much that you’re losing your reality. And it was true. I’d been dreaming of him for so long.

I met him on the beach at El Quisco. He hypnotized me as he played paddleball in his bathing suit. I found myself watching the deft movements of his lithe, hairless body — his legs that were firm and a little crooked, his slender back — and then lowering my gaze to his, how to put it, his unforgettable green bathing suit. Yes. The “gluteous” shapes beneath that green bathing suit were momentous for me. I don’t think that word exists. It would have to be invented for him, for his “gluteous” form. I’ve never seen anything like it since. I shivered, and felt ashamed. He lost the game but he won me over.

And with him, I will dare to go out past the breaker zone, deep enough to swim. The feeling of floating in the ocean, as if I were free from gravity’s force. Sometimes he lets himself float, other times he swims fast, driving his arms into the waves and showing me the strength of his grown man’s shoulders before I lose him from sight. He dives underneath me, under the water, and reappears here or over there. If I got a bad cramp and doubled up and started to drown, Rodrigo would save me. It would be wonderful to be saved by him. Really, I wanted to dance with him. That’s all I wanted, for the moment.

It makes me laugh to remember it. It makes me sad to remember. He came to pick me up to go to a bonfire at the beach. As we were leaving he said he’d left his sweater at home, and I went with him to get it. We went inside. The house was empty. His aunt and uncle had gone to Santiago and wouldn’t be back until Friday, he told me, looking at me with his calm, direct gaze. A log cabin, all very rustic. We sat down on a wicker sofa on the second floor deck, overlooking the ocean. He put on music. We drank piscola. I took off my sandals and rested my feet on a little bamboo table. And then, I don’t know how, we were dancing. Diana Ross’s voice mixed with the sound of the nearby ocean. Reach out and touch somebody’s hand.

Over his shoulder I could see the foam shining on the waves as they broke, lit up by the moon. The floorboards of the deck were spaced apart, and they felt rough when my toes went between them. That was annoying. But it was delicious when my toes would accidentally brush against his. When had he taken off his sandals? A big toe slid over my foot and pressed at the base of my toes. I lost the rhythm and missed a step. He held me firm and I felt the muscles in his chest pressing into mine. The image of his torso in his bathing suit flashed into my mind. My stomach tightened. Here. Like this.

That present, that now drains away without us noticing. What that now holds within it is the crash of waves nearby in the night, and a man’s foot that brushes against mine and stays. Accidentally. We’re dancing. That’s all. And the separated boards of a second-floor deck torment our feet and obstruct their movement. We can’t help but dance very slowly. No matter where you are, no matter how far. . His face is pressed against mine. His tenderness makes me melt. No wind, (no wind) no rain, (no rain) / Nor winter’s cold. . I feel a thigh move between my legs. Its invasive touch unsettles me. He’s bringing me to a place I’d rather not go. I sense danger. Do you know where you’re going to? But there’s a hand with immense fingers that moves down my back and comes to rest along my spine with a smooth naturalness.

When that hand pulled me toward him I had no choice but to go. And then I felt the intrusive thigh wasn’t alone, there was something else now, a firm mass. Was that what he was thinking about? My first reaction was repulsion and disgust, almost. But when I felt it so aggressive and firm and persistent, so foreign to the rest of a human being’s body, I don’t know. . I had never imagined the curiosity that insolent, uninvited guest would provoke in me. Suddenly, I was laughing with my eyes closed and my head thrown back. Rodrigo’s lips on my neck. A shiver went down my back. This was serious. I straightened up and my mouth landed precisely on his. We kissed with a calm that we barely maintained.

My first kiss. . Anyone who forgets her first kiss didn’t deserve it. Don’t you think? Even if she has a degree in French literature and she’s read all her Simone de Beauvoir, her Foucault, and her Derrida. Mine was in El Quisco, like I told you. The truth is, I could never forget. I don’t want to, either. Even though Rodrigo turned out to be a bastard. But in that first encounter there was sensitivity, gentleness, tenderness. Nothing that hinted at the cruelty to come. Our heads moved apart, and the first thing I saw were his eyes narrowed in a smile. When I was able to disengage from those tender, kind eyes, my gaze went to his mouth that, also smiling, was waiting for me. No wind, no rain, / can stop me, babe. . My stomach was being wrung like a wet towel. Something in him was escaping. My mouth sought his and I lost myself in it, I did battle with an ardent tongue, rough and formidable. We gasped for air and he held my hips and pulled me toward him calmly, surely. I don’t know: his bare foot moved slowly over mine.