Guadalupe Nettel - Natural Histories - Stories

“It’s a drama,” I said, completely serious. “I’m convinced our fish love each other, even though they can’t live together.”

How did I come to this conclusion? Even I didn’t know. I thought a bit about our pair of fish. I wondered by what criteria had they been selected at the pet shop to share the container given to Pauline. It had probably been nothing but chance and their being opposite sexes. Perhaps they had been born in the same aquarium and therefore knew each other from before. Or maybe they had never seen the other before being placed in that round fishbowl they had so intimately shared. Could one speak of destiny in the fish world?

I know it sounds foolish when put like this, but my fish suffered by being separated, of that I am absolutely sure. I could sense it as distinctly as I had earlier sensed her fear and her companion’s arrogance. I told myself that most likely in living together, even with the female’s refusal to reproduce, they had developed a kind of affection or emotional dependency. Hence the gloominess that had been manifest in them ever since the day of the fight.

For several days our male was confined to less than five liters of water and without a single rock to hide behind. We had decided to keep him there while we figured out what to do with them. But my husband continued to stay late at the office and so in the entire week we didn’t find a single moment in which to discuss the fate of our fish. On Thursday I brought it up at dinner. Vincent threw me with his response:

“Actually, I think it’s an aberration for us to decide for them. It’s like being sent to family court.”

Rather than a joke, I realized the comment was an evasion. Deep down I wasn’t surprised. He’d been slipping away for months.

By Friday I couldn’t take it anymore and acted recklessly. I grabbed Pauline’s bowl in both hands and with a big splash returned the fish to the matrimonial tank. I then brought my face close to the glass to watch what would happen. After the whirlpool, the male swam downward, to just a few centimeters from the bookshelf. Once there, he stopped moving. The female acted as if nothing had happened. Little by little his mobility returned to him, as did his old habits. He spent a lot of time among the algae plants on the bottom, until the food appeared at the surface of the water. Then he rose like a torpedo, faster than his mate, and devoured as much food as his stomach would allow.

The firm director’s solution to my situation was to extend my maternity leave, by dint of another paid leave. To qualify I had to sign a letter claiming I was suffering from postpartum depression. The medical diagnosis they would obtain themselves. I cannot describe how insecure it all made me. The arrangement demonstrated the director’s goodwill and complete disregard for my professional performance. Thinking about it a little, it was obvious I wouldn’t have worked there for more than four years had I been a bad lawyer. However, knowing that was not enough; it didn’t free me from the feeling of having been treated unfairly. At one point I considered the possibility of suing them for sexism, but I didn’t have the energy to enter into such a lengthy and uncertain trial. Vincent thought the deal wasn’t so bad; the sum they offered was barely less than my salary.

“Think of it as a six-month vacation,” he said, trying to convince me. “Meanwhile, you can look for something else. You’ll find a better job, you’ll see.”

The medical diagnosis ultimately turned into a reality, or just about. I did not suffer, of course, from postpartum depression, but rather from profound discouragement and a permanent bad mood. Oddly enough Vincent started showing the same symptoms, even though he had not given birth or lost his job. Had it been a greater misfortune that had befallen us — the death of a parent, a serious illness (ours, or the baby’s), the actual loss of our financial resources — perhaps then the jolt would have been enough to bring us closer, or at least make us see things from a different perspective. As it were, in those stagnant waters in which Vincent and I moved, our relationship continued on its gradual course toward putrefaction. We never laughed anymore, or enjoyed ourselves at all. The most positive emotion I was able to feel toward him in several weeks was appreciation every time he made dinner or stayed home to take care of Lila so I could go out to the movies with a friend. It was a blessing, his relieving me. I adored my daughter and overall delighted in her company. But I also needed to have moments by myself and in silence, moments of freedom and escape in which I could reclaim, even if only for a couple of hours, my individuality. The world had shifted ever since we became three and it was amazing how, in this new configuration, parenting consumed what remained of our coupling. Compared to a river or even a small pond, an aquarium, no matter how large, is a space still too small for beings dissatisfied and inclined toward unhappiness, such as Betta splendens . Some people have similar minds. There is not space enough therein for happy thoughts or lovely versions of reality. This is how we were in the following months, seeing always the gloomiest side of life, neither fully appreciating nor delighting in our baby and the wonder of her existence, not to mention the infinite inconsequential events — the sun coming out, our health, how lucky we were to have each other.

At the end of May, when you began to feel the heat even at night, Lila got an intestinal infection that gave her a fever of almost 104. Vincent called from the office several times asking after his daughter. He was stuck in a hearing and couldn’t come home.

“I’ll have to stay late tonight,” he had said, “but don’t worry, as soon as I come home I’ll take care of her and you can sleep.”

I had the phone in one hand and with the other I was submerging the baby in a plastic bathtub, hoping to avoid the use of antipyretics. I was too upset to analyze the tone of his voice or the loud noises in the background. But I can say that, despite my many attempts to get in touch with him, my husband did not call again. Nor did he even send a text to let me know he was alive. His silence went on until six in the morning. In the meantime, I was able to get Lila’s fever down and she had been sound asleep since midnight. I waited, troubled, pacing the apartment until at last I heard the sound of the key in the lock.

“I was so worried about you,” I told him, honestly. “Where have you been?”

Vincent explained that after the hearing, the guys in his office had gone out to celebrate the end of an awful week. According to him, he had planned to stay out for only a half an hour and then go home, but the drinks had managed to dwindle his willpower.

“I didn’t hear you call. There was no signal.”

Once the anxiety that something bad had happened to him subsided, an uncontainable wrath awoke in me, charged with all the frustration that had built up over the months. Without a word I began to break, one after another, the plates and the vase on the table.

“You’re crazy!” he yelled, trying in vain to get me to stop and think. “Stop it!”

His insults and reprimands did nothing but infuriate me more.

The next day Vincent moved into Lila’s room and the baby began sleeping with me every night. It could even be said that in that moment we stopped being husband and wife and became roommates. Vincent didn’t come home until dawn several times in two weeks. One morning he didn’t come home at all, not even to change his clothes. My mood oscillated between resentment and bottomless sadness. I never stopped wondering if we were going to get out from this and, if not, what other options we had. For me, I couldn’t imagine any.