Fiction from The Literary Review

A Trip For Inferno

CARMEN FIRAN

A ll I had to do was imagine I was watching my own funeral to get the perspective on the exact relationship with the two women in my life. And what each of them was going to be left, after my death. I could already see myself divided up between them. But I did need this hilarious, lugubrious picture. If for no other reason than to satisfy my own vanity. So that I could sort out the unending stream of feelings, reactions and decisions that are constantly expected of me. And, all along, I proved to be nothing more than an expert in the art of procrastination, unable to break with or launch into anything new.
     So, here was Claudia, my legitimate wife, surrounded by our three children, so presentable. Claudia, at the head of the coffin, overcome with sorrow. Yet stiff and proud to be the main heroine, finally the center of attention. She would accept condolences with dignity, displaying the demeanor of a modest, intellectual lady. She would stoically bear the brunt of yet another drama, herself part of her husband's life and death, going through this tragic but survivable moment by dint of her thoughtfulness in thinking through her new responsibilities as distinguished widow and mother.
     And then, over in that corner, quite far from me, was Dana, who would not even look up, let alone get closer to the coffin. Rather, she seemed keen on blending in among the mourners, as withdrawn and unnoticed as she could possibly be, in her conspicuous black hat, black glasses and black shawl which, by the way, looked so good on her that they seemed yet another insult to my honorable wife. Dana seemed to have been struck by the same grief. Yet, because of her youth, it was a different kind of grief. Of a higher order. Thus, in spite of the second fiddle role she played in the general scheme of things associated with this funeral, she was nevertheless drawing alternately lustful and defying looks, ironical or merely tolerant gazes, at worst judgmental appraisals from the ones who might have been in on our secret relationship. As for Claudia's relatives, if looks could kill, Dana would be devoured in an instant!
     Naturally, I dread the embarrassment I might suffer, should both of them enter the rent-by-the-hour chapel, with their own private grief for the one none of them could envisage in a double life. And I cannot deny that my pride has already been satisfied. Just thinking of the muted dispute raging between these two supposedly grieving ladies, obliged to face this unexpected event, namely my death—this uncontrollable situation of such drastic consequence which would, all of a sudden, upset the formal order of things in their lives.
     And while Dana might perhaps have wanted to avoid these rather embarrassing moments caused by her attending the funeral service, Claudia wouldn't for the world have missed the opportunity of participating in this special event. The wife in black, before whom people bow, take off their hats and encouragingly shake her hand. All eyes turn towards her, as if boring holes through her skull, barely concealing their pity and perhaps just a tiny bit of admiration for her courage in braving this new trial, after having faithfully stood by her man all their married life. As for her, she would immediately fit the bill of the heroic wife. My death would be but another sacrifice she would have to make. She would emerge stronger and embellish her memories of me with mawkish stories of the “real, special character, a man among men” kind, yet careful to mention also “his slight imperfections and shortcomings” but overall “a devoted father and husband,” as I was to read in the flawless obituary published in the papers.
     
     Of course, eventually, my disappearance would only emphasize her martyrdom, as she would have one less paycheck to depend on and would have to look after the unsettled children all by herself. But she would cope with all this in the manner of the woman so prevalent in classical literature—the lone, hardy widow, who never shirks her responsibilities, no matter what, the lioness to the bitter end. She would feed on the memories of a happy marriage, of a special husband who had been spared what might have been the debilitating years of old age, even when they are spent alongside one's spouse. Yes, this unpredicatable but overall boring or annoying reality, repugnant through its helplessness and proneness to disease.
     Claudia would also regret that I had not lived to see my grandchildren. She would put all my clothes in cardboard boxes, which she would deposit in the closet, with a heavy heart or even compassion, because I had not lived to wear some of them. And so, again, I would come out favorable in her memories. I had never valued things too much, always assigning them a secondary place to my needs. Instead I had plenty of other sins! I wonder how many Claudia was aware of. Was it really true that, as one of her colleagues had suggested to her, I had had an amorous liaison with a writer's daughter, much younger than me? Could I have displayed such crass insensitivity, such a propensity for duplicity? How could I be so ruthless, so base, after all she had done for me?
     Fortunately, Claudia is unspeakably vain. The thought would be promptly dismissed from her mind. For she could not bear for one minute to suffer such humiliation just as, throughout her life, she had been far more concerned with her standing in the eyes of those around her, than what was really happening to her.
     What I'm afraid of, though, is that should Claudia suspect I'm having an affair with Dana, she would react in the most natural way women do: she would simply refuse to believe it. Not because she would trust in me or my honesty, or in my simulated correctness, but rather out of a sense of self-preservation, in order to shield herself from biting sarcastic remarks, expressions of pity or possibly the chicanery those around her would stoop to. It might just be possible that the world for which Claudia lives and tries to preserve at all costs, the world which is the only thing that matters in her relationship with the universe, would tacitly approve of me. Or even take pleasure in my affair. Or even envy me this late-blooming folly and try to protect me from my wife's possessiveness, giving me and Dana blanket approval, which would really be the last straw for Claudia!
     It's not her suffering that matters, but her humiliation. The damage to her reputation, the wounding of her pride. It wouldn't be me she would grieve for, but rather her own defeat. I can't tell exactly how the funeral would pan out and I'd rather not have to witness any of it, not if I can help it! Although I do not foresee any violent or unsuitable reaction from my wife upon Dana's entrance into the chapel, due, no doubt, to the presence of the other participants, whom she really wants to impress with her dignity, with her studied indifference to rumors. She would ignore Dana, would refuse to let her participate in the smallest detail associated with the funeral procession, reserved for the exclusive participation of the immediate family and their circle of friends. And on me, though no longer alive, she would heap her choicest scorn, happy at last that she could have me all to herself.
     She would dominate the assembly, fighting back her tears, but evidently convinced that I got my just desserts. Me, the unrepentant villain who had had the audacity to cheat on her—naturally doing so only at the insistent nagging of Dana! For that's precisely where Claudia's problem lies. She might perhaps be willing to put up with a love affair, as long as I had been the seduced party, the loved, raped victim of an obsessed woman, the poor hapless man who had had no choice but to sleep with some crazy woman whose clutches he had been helpless to resist. What mattered was that I did not love that crazy woman, that I had no desire whatsoever for her, that I did not take the initiative to woo her—something Claudia would consider me incapable of, anyway, since she was securely installed as my wife, with the proper papers to prove it, the upshot of it all being that she owned me. From here on things are becoming clear: she has a hold on my feelings. O, yes, I may have affairs, but when it comes to loving, she is the sole object of my affection. She had decided many years ago she was not going to share me with any other woman, would never part with me, no matter what.
     Sure, I had my own part in encouraging her to reach such a level of self-confidence. Through my cowardice when faced with surprises. Through my mediocrity, which lent me an air of stable domesticity, which might easily pass for seriousness, for poise or for sternness in the face of the sensational. In short, the perfect type to be manipulated by an ambitious, energetic, possessive and domineering woman.
     What is awful though is that I am speaking only about Claudia, when, in fact, it's Dana I care for. I take a paranoic view of Claudia's reactions at the funeral, when all the time my real concern is what would Dana look like, how much she would suffer. Not for me, but because of me. Which might mean that Claudia would emerge a winner again, vanquishing us once more. She insinuated herself permanently into us, transcending death itself. And she will continue to make demands on me, ad nauseam.
     I was surveying them both from that vantage point where they had laid me out in that stiff, full-length position, arms folded across my chest, in my perfectly fitting evening suit, wearing my favorite tie, whose knot they had been unable to get right. It was far too large, making me look a bit outdated. If I were to open my eyes, my field of vision would be filled with Claudia, icy and grieving, with lips forming a smile dripping with a mixture of irony and malice. Studying me triumphantly, but deeply hurt. Her pride was all but useless to her now, as was her victory over me, which she had desired for so long, indeed had dreamed of, except that it would only have mattered to her if I were alive. I can hear Claudia hissing through her teeth, “You ungrateful beast! You're such a coward. You didn't have the guts to confront me.”
     And of course she is right. I did kick the bucket at the very moment she felt she was finally going to humiliate me. And she would do so either through her generously forgiving me, so she could then dominate me forever, or by blackmailing me with her cruelty for my having cheated on her. As for Dana, I could only see her if I rolled my eyes backwards. She was far away, hidden among those bodies in mourning who were standing on their tiptoes so they would not miss a single detail of the funeral ceremony.
     I loved them both, God is my witness. It's just that I loved them differently, each in her own way. Claudia with tranquility, but also with fear in my heart. Just as I had loved my mother, when I would do something bad and was afraid of her wrath, which was sure to follow. But I still loved her even when she scolded or punished me. Dana I loved intensely, passionately, nervously and chaotically. Unsure of myself, awkwardly, just as I loved my daughter, afraid lest I should do something that would upset her or harm her, always trying to anticipate her whims, to read her mind, to never disappoint her. And each of them was assured of my love. In fact, I don't think I was deceiving either of them. I was giving one hundred percent of myself to each of them. It never occurred to me while I was sleeping with Claudia to imagine that I was actually sleeping with Dana. Or to make love with Dana and suddenly to remember some intimate moment I had spent with Claudia. Each of them had me entirely to herself.
     
     They laid the lid over the coffin, hammered in four nails and, from that moment on, I could see nothing. Totally dissatisfied with the way the funeral had turned out, I climbed down to the subway station, pleasantly surprised with my sudden jovial mood. Once aboard the train, I grabbed the overhead rail with a quick, youthful gesture and bravely suffered the apparently admiring looks of a lady about my age, who was probably thinking at that moment that each of us was aging in different ways.
     Was I just imagining it, or did that respectable lady actually give me a curt nudge with her elbow, as if by accident, surrounded as we were by all that mass of people? She had something of the silent, unspoken reproaches Claudia would often treat me with. The barely suppressed, malicious glint in her eyes as she gave me the once over after I had just bought a particularly well-fitting coat that made me look much younger. Or the coolness with which she would treat me whenever I achieved some outstanding professional success. Her jealousy is not confined to women but extends into some sort of competition with everything that belongs to me.
     Could it be that I'm so obsessed with Claudia that I've come to a point where not only is she filling my every thought, every waking moment, but now it turns out I find myself discovering striking similarities between her and perfectly strange women riding the subway, walking in the park or shopping the stores? Or perhaps my sense of guilt over my infidelity to her is what's making her even stronger? The fear I experience lest I hurt her in any way is boomeranging on me, assailing me with all kinds of complexes and panics.
     I can feel a certain weariness, a numbness in my bones, as I get closer to home. I fear Claudia. That's it! No doubt about it, I am afraid of her, hence this fatigue, this sense of being haunted. Marriages born of love only end up in fear—at least that's what I remember having read somewhere.
      I don't bother searching for my key. Claudia's got to be home. Yes, she is. There she is opening the door to me, with a kitchen apron in her left hand, meaning she's just finished cooking dinner. It smells so good, this Irish pie!
     Claudia is so serene she looks sad. I leave my coat in the living room. I wash my hands and then join her at the table. It's comfortably warm in the kitchen, so I undo the top two buttons of my shirt. She is not looking at me, busy with the task of getting the casserole out of the oven. She sets the table, lays out everything. I get ready to start married life as a couple. But Claudia is one step ahead of me.
     “Some woman called Dana phoned.”
     I freeze, with one sleeve half turned, unsure whether I should bother tackling the other.
     “Dana? Here?” I listen to myself stammering out panic-filled words.
     “Yes, here. Why are you asking?”
     “And?”
     I don't know what tone I should adopt. I can feel a lump rising in my throat as I watch Claudia's reactions. How much does she know? What does she know? I can't stand these tense moments, when I am faced with a sudden, unavoidable danger.
     “She said she couldn't make the date.”
     “Date? What date?” I burst out, almost shouting.
     “I don't know. That's all she said.”
     My stomach is tied up in knots. I feel a wave of nausea working its way up, and my chest is constricted by an acute pain. A pain that grows stronger and stronger by the minute, as if an iron clamp were tightening its jaws around my heart.
     “She's on her way to a funeral.”
     I stop, my fork in mid-air, as I look at her pleadingly.
     “A funeral?”
     “Her lover died.”
     “Her lover?”
     The pain in my chest has become unbearable. Am I dying? Is it so easy to die? By fear? By guilt?
     “That's what she said. Her lover.”
     “Did she mention any name?”
     “No. I didn't ask. In fact, I don't even know this girl. Maybe she's some fellow worker of yours?”
     “Yes, yes,” I stammer, “I work with her.” And the pain is killing me.
     “Poor woman! You know what it's like at such moments . . .”
     “I know . . .” is all I manage to say.
     I tilt my head, as if deeply moved by the dramatic moments my colleague has to go through and try to concentrate on my meal, without losing sight of Claudia. I can no longer breathe. Space is so tight around us. I fall down on the floor. Claudia drops her fork screaming desperately.
     Now I can't feel anything. Only a deep silence. The door opens and I can see Dana pulling her black shawl around her neck, adjusting her black hat, which fit her so well. She steps out, vanishing into the crowd. Claudia carefully flicks a few pieces of lint from her black overcoat. Then, stiff and proud, she cuts through the crowd, making everyone step aside. From there on nothing can be seen anymore.

                                                       Translated from the Romanian
                                                            by Dorin Motz