Obsession by Florencia Bonelli
“Why did you lie to me, Eliah? When I asked you if there had been something between you, right here, the night of the party that Trégart threw, you told me you were just friends.”
“Because I wasn’t going to say to you right here that we had been lovers. Please, my love,” he said, and left his place to sit next to Matilde, “understand me. Your sister and I were destined to have a fling in the past…”
“She doesn’t refer to it as a fling. She says that you promised to leave your wife.”
“That’s a lie!” he protested, getting upset. “I never, ever promised her anything. Both she and I knew that what united us was sex, and nothing more.”
Matilde stood up and moved toward the window. The word sex in Eliah’s mouth in reference to Celia was more than she could bear. She lifted the voile curtain and looked down on the street. The peace on Avenue Charles Floquet, the sound of the leaves of the chestnut trees rustling in the wind and the far-off bark of a dog worked on her mood like a sedative. She closed her eyes, suddenly exhausted. She thought of sending Al-Saud packing, of running to her room, diving into bed and staying there asleep until so much time had passed that she had forgotten these three months in Paris.
Al-Saud crept up stealthily so as not to frighten her and put his hands around Matilde’s tiny waist. He bent down and nuzzled her hair with his nose, reaching down to her neck so he could kiss and smell it. Matilde noticed that he had put on A*Men; she hadn’t put on any perfume, not even the Upa la-lá.
“My love,” he whispered passionately, “you don’t know how much I miss having you in my life. I love you so much. I can’t stand this separation. The pain is killing me. Let’s get out of here and start to live our lives together.”
The way Matilde got rid of his hands and moved away from him, with a delicacy indicative of her control and determination, filled him with fear.
“You lied to me too much, Eliah. You hid your long romance with my sister and never confessed the true nature of your business to me.”
“There’s nothing between Céline and I.”
“But there was, don’t tell me that there wasn’t. For a relationship to last so long, there must have been more than sex.”
“Matilde, I’m going to say something that will sound chauvinist to you, maybe even simple-minded, but a man knows he’s in love with a woman when he only wants to make love to her and everyone else simply ceases to exist. That has happened to me, in the length of my thirty-one years, only once: when I met you. I only want you, I only want to make love to you, I only want to be with you. No one else.
In spite of herself, Matilde believed him.
“You didn’t tell me what you really do.”
“You didn’t tell me that you suffered from a disease when you were sixteen and that you can’t have children.” Instinctively, Matilde turned her back on him to hide her shame. “Why didn’t you ever talk to me about that?”
“Once, when you told me you were a pilot,” she said, forcing herself to breathe, “I asked you if you had been in any wars. You answered yes, but that you didn’t want to talk about it because it didn’t bring back good memories. I’m saying the same thing to you now: I don’t want to talk about that. For me, the battle against cancer was the war I had to fight and I don’t remember the experience fondly.”
“Were you going to mention it to me at some point?” he asked, with an undercurrent of anger and sarcasm. “When were you planning on telling me you couldn’t have children?”
“Never!” She rounded on him so violently that Al-Saud startled. “I wasn’t planning on telling you ever because I knew that sooner or later our relationship would have to end. The thing with Celia at the George V just sped up the inevitable.”
“What are you talking about? What do you mean by that?”
“That when I went to the Congo, we were going to end. We don’t have a future. I don’t trust you. Every woman that came near you drove me insane with jealousy. On the other hand, there’s my career, which is paramount for me.”
“Do you mean to say that while we were loving each other, while we were sharing what we shared, you knew that you were going to break up with me?” Matilde nodded, without looking up, but when she heard the parquet creak, she made herself look at him. Her soul sank to the floor. Al-Saud was putting on his jacket. It was clear that he was leaving. “You deceived me, Matilde. I never imagined you could be so cold and calculating. You used me like a fool. You used me. You’re no better than your sister Céline. At least she was always sincere.”
Matilde saw him open the door to the little sitting room, cross the hall and leave the apartment. A strange thing happened when something upset her—she thought about something stupid and meaningless. I don’t recognize those black pants. They look good on him. She was afraid to move. If she started with movement, everything else would follow and she felt as though she didn’t have the strength to do it. When she saw Ezequiel standing in the doorway, looking at her sadly, Matilde fought the urge to cry. The more she repressed it, the harder it got, and the tension in her body made her tremble. Finally, her vision clouded over, her resistance ceded and she crumpled to the floor, where she suffered a breakdown that brought tears to Ezequiel’s eyes. He ran to curl up next to her and console her. Juana watched them from the door, swept the back of her hand over her eyes impatiently and ran to get her agenda. She had to make a call.
“Snicks?” That was all that was left from her “Snickers” nickname for Alamán.
“Yes, Juani. What a surprise. I wasn’t expecting your call.”
“I’m sorry to bother you. Are you busy?”
Alamán, standing naked next to the bed, glanced at the woman he had just had sex with.
“Busy? Not at all. What do you need?”
“Could you come pick me up from Trégart’s and take me to Eliah’s? It’s urgent.”
“I can come in an hour, does that work for you? Let me write down Trégart’s address.”
They got to Al-Saud’s house at seven in the evening. Juana was afraid he wouldn’t be there.
“You ring the bell. I’m scared if I say it’s me, he won’t want to see me. He was blowing smoke out of his ears when he left Trégart’s house.”
Leila opened the door and emitted an exclamation when she saw Juana. They hugged.
“Where’s Matilde?”
“Ohhh, Leilita! She fought with Eliah. It’s very bad.”
“I want to see her.”
“We’re going to the Congo tomorrow. I don’t think there will be time. Is Eliah here?”
The girl nodded and said, “Gymnasium.”
“I’ll stay downstairs so you can talk quietly,” said Alamán.
Juana went up the stairs that were so familiar to her. She did so slowly, appreciating every detail of the eccentric Art Nouveau decoration and smiled, thinking of how happy they had been during those weeks in the strange house on Avenue Elisée Reclus.
Even through the closed gymnasium door, Juana heard Al-Saud’s exclamations as he exercised. She inched the door open without making a sound. Eliah, in white karate pants and a naked torso, was kicking a long bag of sand hanging from a steel wire set up on a system of poles that allowed him to move it from one side of the dojo to the other. She had tried to move it for fun, and thrown herself at it with punches and kicks, without budging it an inch. So when Al-Saud, letting out a shout, kicked it and made it slide a few feet along, Juana had an idea of exactly the type of rage that was dominating him. She was afraid of him. Nonetheless, she went in.
“Hello, stud.”
Al-Saud was doubled over so that his torso almost brushed his knees and was breathing with difficulty, but he turned his head from there and looked at her with hatred. He straightened up with deliberate slowness and wiped his forehead with a towel before speaking.
“Juana, you know how fond I am of you. But this isn’t a good time. It would be better if you left.”
“Yes, I know, Eliah. It’s not a goo
“I don’t know what you wanted to talk about. You friend made it very clear to me. She used me in a way…”
“No, Eliah!” Juana put her hand up to shut him up. “Listen to me, please. Give me a moment. I beg you in the name of our friendship.”
Al-Saud nodded and perched on one of the weight-lifting machines. He looked defeated and exhausted.
“I know very well the string of nonsense Mat just said to you to keep you away. Because you have to know that all she was trying to do was keep you away forever. Do you know why? Because she doesn’t want to tie you to her.”
“Tie me to her? What does that mean? I want to be tied to her. Forever.”
“But she can’t give you children and so she doesn’t want to bind you to her.”
A spark of hope appeared in Al-Saud’s face, but was extinguished immediately.
“I don’t know if I believe you, Juana,” he said, throwing back his head and shaking it. “Why would a person act like that, throwing her happiness away, sacrificing herself like that? It doesn’t seem believable to me.”
“Oh, Eliah. That’s Mat. After all these months with her, you don’t think she’s capable of sacrificing herself for you? She says you want to have children.”
“I’m sorry, Juana, but she seemed very firm when she told me that she had always known she was going to break up with me when she left for the Congo. Her career comes first. My bad behavior with women also played an important part in her decision, according to what she told me.”
“I’m not going to deny that the thing with Celia and the article in Paris Match hit her hard, but, deep down, she always knew this would end because of her infertility. If we look at it coldly, there’s also an element of pride in all this. And Mat has a lot of pride. She gets it from her father. The Martínez Olazábals could win prizes for their pride. When they extirpated her reproductive organs, her great dream, of being a wife and a mother, went down the drain. From that moment on, she became obsessed with the idea of getting a medical degree and dedicating herself to treating the weakest people in the world. Her psychiatrist told her that, since she had been left without a role in life, mother and wife, she invented this other one, and she waves it around like a banner so that everyone will know that she may not be able to give life, but she can still save them. In short, stud, she wants to show that though she’ll never bring a child into the world, she is valuable and has the right to exist.”
Juana’s last words touched his heart. His Matilde didn’t need to look for the meaning of life. Her mere existence was the meaning, because she made the world a better place. He would have liked to have this conversation with her instead of Juana. He would have liked to console her and demonstrate to her that she was the meaning of his life.
“My God, Juana,” he lamented. “I’m so confused. Why did she agree to marry Blahetter? She couldn’t give him children either.”
“Ugh, that idiot, God rest his soul. Don’t compare that situation with this one. Matilde didn’t love him. Plus, she knew that Roy was egocentric and only thought about himself and the success of his career. He didn’t give a damn about having children. Plus, don’t forget the pressure Mat’s father put on her to agree to marry him. Don Aldo had a very strong influence on Mat. She adores him, even though she knows he’s the biggest fool in the world.”
Al-Saud rested his elbows on his knees and put his head in his hands. A few seconds passed in silence. Juana looked at her watch. She had to go; she still hadn’t finished packing.
“Stud, I’m leaving. It’s late. I just wanted you to know the truth behind this whole situation.”
Al-Saud stood up and walked toward Juana. He put his hand on her shoulder and smiled at her.
“Thank you. You’ve been an excellent friend. To Matilde as well.”
“Hey, that’s me,” she said in self-mockery, “wonder woman.”
“Do I have any hope, Juana?”
“I think so. That’s why I’m here, at the risk of getting kicked in the head when I came through that door.” Al-Saud laughed in spite of his despondent mood. “It won’t be easy to get her back, stud. The truth is that you fucked up with the Celia thing, especially since she was the one who revealed Matilde’s infertility to you. Finding out what she did from the Paris Match article did its part as well. But she loves you so much it makes her crazy. I’m sure that she could forgive you for everything she’s upset about now. The question we should ask here is: Will Matilde forgive herself for the fact that she’s an infertile woman and let herself be happy with the man who loves her? That’ll be the hardest part, stud.”
Al-Saud looked at Juana as she went down the stairs and, as he admired her unbreakable spirit, he debated whether or not to believe her theory.
Matilde smiled sadly out of sight of Juana or Ezequiel. The smile had something sardonic in it as well, but it was just for her. Three months before, when she was boarding the flight in Ezeiza that would bring her to Paris, she had imagined that life was finally giving her the opportunity she had always yearned for: to go to Africa to treat the weak and neglected. At that point, she felt happy and euphoric. Right now, as she crossed the crowded lobby of Charles de Gaulle Airport and went up to the check-in counter for the Belgian airline Sabena, which was taking them to Kinshasa, the capital of the Democratic Republic of the Congo, life was weighing down on her, as if it were a dark, cold, damp tunnel with no light at the end. She didn’t want to walk down it without Eliah. He had been the true light of her life.
Diana and Markov were watching her closely for the last time. She would miss them, she said to herself. Ezequiel and Juana were entertaining themselves with newspapers and magazines at a kiosk. Matilde watched them chatting and laughing like someone watching the rain fall.
“Regarde-moi, Matilde.” The familiar voice seemed to have come from inside her. At the same time, she felt a hand squeeze her shoulder. She spun around quickly. She was alone, there was no one behind her. She looked a little farther and saw him. He was there, a few feet away, staring at her obstinately. Eliah Al-Saud, in the flesh. As usual she felt the powerful energy that radiated out from him enveloping her and subjugating her, but it disappeared as if by magic when she noticed the unusual way his green eyes were shining. They were tears, which spilled over and fell down his unshaven cheeks.
“Bonjour, Matilde! Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you!”
“Bonjour, Auguste,” she murmured.
“Are you okay?” Vanderhoeven looked worried.
“Yes, yes, fine. Excuse me,” she said, and moved toward Al-Saud, but he wasn’t there anymore. She looked for him desperately. The crowd confused her. She ran toward the door, scanned the cars; she couldn’t make out the Aston Martin. Al-Saud had disappeared.
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CHAPTER 24
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Gérard Moses was conscious of the fact that this was a privilege bestowed on very few people. He looked out of the little window of the Panther AS 565 helicopter and made out, in the midst of the unfathomable darkness of the mountains in the north of Iraq, the light of the palace where the sayid rais would receive him for dinner. The lavish dwelling in the village of Sarseng was the only place where Saddam Hussein felt safe; for that reason, being invited to enter the heart of this fortress constituted an unusual honor that Gérard had earned by offering the rais what he valued most: loyalty. Saddam preferred to surround himself with ministers and advisers who might not have been very intelligent but were faithful, submissive and obsequious. Gérard Moses was something unusual: a collaborator with an uncommonly high IQ and unshakable loyalty. He had been demonstrating both qualities for a few years and had convinced Hussein that only one person had a stronger aversion to the Zionists and Israelis than the sayid rais himself did: Gérard Moses. They were united by more than hatred, by a co
It took him almost half an hour to get through the security checks implemented by the soldiers of the Iraqi Special Security Organization (Amn al Khass in Arabic), under the command of Kusay Hussein, the second son of the rais. In the dark of the night, it was difficult to see the men who were guarding the palace inside the perimeter of electrified fence. But Gérard knew that they were there; he could hear the barking of the Dobermans and rottweilers Saddam liked so much. He looked up and made out the silhouettes of the Crotale antiaircraft missiles stationed on the roof. Of course, the palace was a fortress, with bunkers where a thousand people could take refuge, stocked with enough water and supplies to withstand months underground. They said, though Gérard couldn’t confirm it, that those bunkers led to the mouths of tunnels linked to a subterranean aerial base a few miles to the east, where they ran a laboratory of chemical and biological weapons that the allied forces hadn’t detected during the Gulf War because they had made it blend into the landscape using the Russian maskirovka technique. The fortress was missing the roar of the engines of the fighter planes that, before the conflict, had flown over it to protect the airspace. Fauzi Dahlan had said that since 1991, the brand-new Iraqi air force had been reduced to a pile of scraps, not to mention the pilots that deserted, taking Migs and Mirages with them to Iran and Saudi Arabia.
One of the two oak doors swung open, and Gérard went into the dining room, which he had been to before. The familiarity of the place and the faces observing him from different points of the room gave him a sense of belonging that he hadn’t felt often in his life. Fauzi Dahlan approached him with a smile.
“Professor Orville Wright!” he exclaimed. “Welcome!”
The majority of those present knew Gérard’s real name; nonetheless, they approved of his custom of adopting the name of one of the inventors of the airplane in academic spheres, given his hatred for the last name Moses, which sounded so Jewish and was so tied up with the Zionist cause.