The Case of Lisandra P. (5 page)

VITTORIO

Men are forced to deal with other problems, Alicia; they know other forms of withering.

ALICIA

Ah! At last you're using the right words; you were beginning to disappoint me. “Withering,” you mean “droopy dick,” is that it? You see, there isn't even a scientific word when reality is not as pressing. And so what, what does that change—droopy dick or not, you can still do it. Why can men have children until the day they die, but that right is taken away from us years earlier? Why doesn't it stop for everyone at the same time? Isn't it the worst form of punishment for a woman to see her role in life taken away from her? You have nothing to say, do you? I think it would be a good idea to have euthanasia for women once they're barren. For their own good. One year without their period, and then off you go, straight to the abattoir. And if they need convincing, have them watch a film documenting the erectile potency of their husband, boyfriend, or partner as measured when in the presence of two categories of women: young and old. And fill their glass with a deadly poison—how eagerly they'd drink it down; they're dehydrated from watching that penis they hadn't seen that stiff in so long. Without anyone knowing why, women would disappear, and that would kill two birds with one stone, putting an end to their misery and reducing the rate of aging in the population, which, as we all know, will become the scourge of the planet. Wolves, you know, kill pack members that get sick—we should be like them, we should copy the behavior of animals; they're the ones that have got it right. So, how do you intend to comfort me now? A little erection? I don't think you could, could you? I do understand. If I find my body repulsive, shouldn't it be repulsive to others, too? Forgive me.

VITTORIO

Don't worry about it; sometimes it's good to let it out.

ALICIA

I haven't cried here in so long.

VITTORIO

That's true.

ALICIA

You know that women have four times as many tears as men? It's biological—it just goes to show which sex was designated by nature for sorrow.

VITTORIO

Sorrow is not the sole lot of women, you know that very well.

ALICIA

That's not what I'm saying. I'm simply saying that our suffering is inscribed in the quantity of tears that nature has placed at our disposal: four times more than for men.

VITTORIO

That is absolute nonsense.

ALICIA

No, you can read it in a book. If you only knew how much I read these days. A book, you can keep hold of; not a man. So, tell me how I am to replace love if I can no longer inspire it—not with children, they leave home, too—look at Juan, he's gone. It seems like everyone leaves us at the same time, men and children, and I still don't know why Luis left me—“You've done nothing wrong, that's just the way it is.” He didn't even have the courage to admit, “Because you're too old. Because you don't look like the young woman in our wedding photo anymore,” but he doesn't look like the young man in the photo, either, it's just that women still find him
attractive. Apparently a woman seems old to a man once she reaches the age his mother was when he was an adolescent; I'll bet you didn't know that, either. My ex-husband was careful not to tell me that he moved in with a thirty-year-old woman, but I found out, because Juan told me. Juan thinks I have
the right to know
, my dear boy who doesn't even come to see me once a month, and when he does it's to bring me news like this on top of it. His father met a woman who is thirty years old and I have the right to know, he rages. He didn't ask me whether I wanted to know, but he's not being cruel, just naïve. Is it really only young women who can have such an impact on men? Tell me. But you're not exactly in a position to tell me otherwise. With your young wife.

VITTORIO

What I am hearing, above all, is that you have not yet finished mourning the separation from your ex-husband. That's what we're really talking about—your ex-husband is with another woman, is that it? And she's thirty years old. Answer me, Alicia: did your ex-husband meet another woman?

ALICIA

The only way I could have an impact on Luis would be to commit some monstrous deed, for example, if I hurt his new fiancée, and yesterday I threatened him, and he said, “If you so much as touch a hair on her head I will blow your brains out.” “One day,” I said, “you pathetic old man, that blonde or brown or red hair you caress with so much passion and surprise will turn gray, too. She can't escape; no matter how much you caress her hair it won't prevent the gray from taking hold, at the root, and while you're at it take a closer look next time—the evil process may already be under way. Spread her hair instead of spreading her legs and take a close
look.” And you know what he replied? Something monstrously egotistical: “I won't be there to see it.” Just like with the baby, he won't be there to see it grow up, but he doesn't care about that, either, he—

VITTORIO

Hold on a minute, Alicia, what baby are you talking about? What baby won't your husband see grow up?

ALICIA

The one he's having with his whore, of course. Just like that, as if it were some Christmas present. Juan is going to have a little brother or a little sister, and I had nothing to do with it, can you imagine?

VITTORIO

I'm so sorry, Alicia, truly I am. It's true that this is unfair. But that's the way life is; we can change a great many things, but certain circumstances are rigid, imposed. We can't change them; all we can do is try to see things from a positive point of view. Your son will surely have a child with his wife and then you'll see how happy you'll be, you'll be able to look after the baby, you'll—

ALICIA

You really don't get it, do you? I don't want to be a grandmother, I still want to be a mother! It seems like you don't understand how important motherhood is to a woman.

VITTORIO

No, I do understand.

ALICIA

No, you don't. You have shown no empathy, from the very start of this conversation. I can tell, you feel
nothing, you're distant. You're going to have children with your wife, aren't you? She's pregnant, too? That's why you're so embarrassed . . .

VITTORIO

My wife is not pregnant. She doesn't want children.

ALICIA

That can't be, it's like the poet's “darkness visible”—there's no such thing as women who don't want children, they don't exist, they—

VITTORIO

You are wrong, Alicia. They do exist.

ALICIA

No, they don't, and if I were you, I'd be worried. Your wife is hiding something from you; you should—

VITTORIO

My wife is fine, Alicia, thank you very much, but you are not a benchmark for all women, and you should stop saying “we” when you speak, you should say “I.” It might not come as easy to you, but it will be more accurate. At the moment, you are under the impression that you are weeping for all women, that you're defending a cause, “women,” as if you were part of a relief organization. But just let me remind you that your tears are yours alone; they belong to you and are not a symbol for anyone else. There are many women your age who are happy. They don't all think the way you do, and you shouldn't go on believing they do. I'll tell you what's at stake here, it's your anger, your sorrow alone. At the risk of repeating myself, there are many women your age who are happy. You'll start making great progress if you understand this. Life doesn't stop, Alicia, and those who want to stop the
flow of life are bound to lose. I'm sorry, but this is just a bad period to get through. You may be under the impression that your ex-husband can do everything and you can do nothing, but things will get better; you must simply be a bit more patient. You seem to enjoy being bitter and despondent. But if you face reality, you will see that not all women are bored the way you are. Forgive me, Alicia, but it's not a child you need to lose to feel less bored, it's your money.

ALICIA

You're right, it's time to pay for my session, but you might have pointed it out more courteously.

VITTORIO

That was not what I wanted to point out.

ALICIA

Of course it was.

VITTORIO

You're wrong, Alicia.

ALICIA

Of course I'm wrong. I should never have had this conversation with you, with a man. I should have thought of this before. One should always choose a psychoanalyst of the same sex.

Eva Maria looks at herself in the mirror. Moves closer. Runs her hands over her face. Her daughter had her nose, the shape of her eyes, but not the same color, just the shape. Stella also had a dimple in her chin. Like the bed of a cherry stone. Eva Maria didn't like it on herself, but on Stella she always thought it was pretty—adorable when she was a child, lovely when she had grown up. The paradox of motherhood was that now that dimple was what Eva Maria liked best of all about her face. Eva Maria moves closer to the mirror. Her fingers slide across her face. Her cheeks. Her neck. Her skin is fading, it's true. And it's true she never looks at herself. And it's true she no longer sees herself. Eva Maria places both hands on the edge of the sink. Does not take her eyes off herself. She opens the mirror of the small bathroom cabinet. She takes out a little white makeup bag that has yellowed slightly over time. She takes out her mascara. Tries to paint her eyelashes. She has shed so many tears that she is no longer used to putting on makeup. The mascara has dried out. Eva Maria gives up. Not altogether. She puts a little bit of lipstick on her lips. She looks in the mirror. For once she doesn't look at her dimple. Or her nose. Or the shape of her eyes. But she doesn't judge the result for all that; she doesn't pout or even smile. You can't
do everything the first time. Eva Maria closes the little white makeup bag. Yellowed with age. She listens to the sound of the zipper. Her eyes without mascara are shining. Eva Maria has an appointment with Vittorio. He is going to be pleased with what she has found.

“‘I should have thought of it sooner. One should always choose a psychoanalyst of the same sex.'”

Eva Maria stresses the last two sentences. Emphatically. Like a bad actress laying it on thick when the text alone would be enough. Her mouth is dry from reading so much. The lipstick has faded. Eaten away by words. Eva Maria gathers up the typed pages. She looks at Vittorio sitting opposite her. She is like a child waiting to be congratulated. Vittorio smiles, in spite of himself. Surely a nervous smile.

“Alicia is a desperate woman. Not a murderer.”

“And yet killing seems to be the most extreme expression of despair.”

Vittorio shakes his head.

“Not always. And above all, not in Alicia's case.”

Eva Maria sits up straight.

“But she goes on and on about how much she hates young women, and about your wife. This last session clearly indicates what she was capable of.”

“On the day we had that session, Alicia used Lisandra as a pretext to tell me everything she had to say. But as for Lisandra herself, Alicia couldn't have cared less about her, believe me. But I can see
why this cassette would upset you. In a way she's talking about you, the mothers of the Plaza de Mayo, the loss of a child . . .”

Eva Maria moves closer.

“And what if her motives were not as precise as you would like to think they were? What if this woman had decided to take revenge on you for everything she thought she had ever been a victim of? In a fit of madness. What if she decided to attack the symbol of everything tragic in her life by attacking your wife, who was so young, or younger than you, in any case. She says herself that she could kill.”

Vittorio smiles. Quite openly this time.

“Not all people who say they could kill actually do kill.”

“Stop laughing, Vittorio, this woman is violent. Don't you remember the sound of her voice? It gave me the shivers, just transcribing the cassette.”

“A voice can be deceptive—if you knew Alicia, you wouldn't say that. She's a tiny little woman.”

“So? Even tiny little women can kill—even ‘little old women'—she was that furious with you when she left. It seems you don't realize the state you had gotten her in. You didn't say even one word to comfort her, to defuse the situation.”

Vittorio drums his fingers on the edge of the table.

“I didn't get her into any state, she left in that state, and the way a session ends is never just by chance. The patient reaches a point they were bound to reach. If there is one place where chance does not exist, it is in the psychoanalyst's office. Everything there is a matter of will or, if you prefer, of the unconscious, and that's fine, even if a patient is angry when she leaves. If you knew how many times that has happened to me.”

Vittorio stops drumming on the edge of the table.

“Even with you, for example.”

Eva Maria sits back.

“With me?”

“Yes, if you'll recall . . . the day we disagreed about your son, when I told you that you weren't looking after him properly, that you were leaving him too much on his own. It was a session that was absolutely comparable to this one, don't you remember?”

Eva Maria looks down. A shadow passes over her eyes. Vittorio continues.

“You see, Alicia would have come back—she would have let some time go by, I'll grant you that—but she would have come back. Believe me, intervals like that are often beneficial during analysis.”

“Because it was a long time ago, that session?”

“I can't remember . . . roughly two months ago.”

“You see, I was right! I'm sure of it, there's something weird going on, I tell you, that woman was prepared to do anything. Maybe she was in love with you?”

“Of course she wasn't; how many times do I have to say it? That session was simply very immodest, and now Alicia must be extremely embarrassed for having said all that, but it won't go any further. Alicia has nothing to do with Lisandra's murder. Is that all you found? Have you listened to all the cassettes?”

Eva Maria goes through the motions of gathering up her papers again. She looks at the wrinkles on her hands. She sees them as if for the first time. She thinks she can even see two brown spots.

“And you didn't even call her when you saw she didn't come back the following week?”

“It's against the code of professional ethics.”

“But I thought you had to know how to bend the code when necessary? When it's your recordings, it doesn't bother you. However, it doesn't even occur to you to transgress the code for a
poor woman who's having trouble dealing with her runaway old age, no, in that case, not even a little phone call. And what if she's committed suicide, have you thought of that? You disappoint me.”

Vittorio remains silent. He looks at Eva Maria.

“I disappoint you. Have you heard yourself? You sound like Alicia now. The point is not to identify with a patient's unhappiness or distress, and that's precisely what you are doing. And yet how hard is it to see that this woman's grudge is not against me, but against life in its most basic form, nature. She says as much, over and over, doesn't she? There is nothing that could comfort her or reconcile her with herself other than to wake up one morning with her twenty-year-old face and body. But that is not in the realm of my power, so I'm sorry if I ‘disappoint' you. What did you want me to do for her? Go on, give me the solution! It interests me. What would you have wanted me to do for Alicia?”

Eva Maria looks down. She remains silent. Vittorio places both hands on the table. He leans closer.

“Sleep with her, maybe? To give her back a bit of her femininity, do my utmost, session after session, to fuck her so she'll keep her self-confidence, and while we're at it, should I even stop making her pay for her sessions, just so she won't think I'm sleeping with her for the money, but simply from pure desire—
basta
! I'm not in the mood for barroom psychoanalyzing; we're in a prison here, or more precisely,
I
am in prison, and at the risk of sounding snide I'll say that as prisons go it's not quite as natural as old age. This conversation is absolutely meaningless, and besides, you're not even defending Alicia, you're attacking me. You're attacking me because of what I just reminded you of.”

“You didn't remind me of anything!”

“I did. I spoke to you about your son. And you can't stand that. But today wasn't the first time. I was wrong to drag you into this
business—you're too fragile, you can't help me; no one can help me. I'm up against the wall.”

Vittorio raises his hands to gesture to the guard. Eva Maria grabs his wrist.

“Excuse me, Vittorio, I'm sorry, stay here—you're right, it's not Alicia who killed your wife, if you say so; you know her better than I do. I don't know what came over me, forgive me. But I haven't found anything else, nothing at all, and I've already listened to over half of the cassettes. So when I heard this session, I got carried away, I thought this was it, I thought I'd found a lead to get you out of here. Forgive me, Vittorio.”

“Over half of the cassettes.” Vittorio shrivels on his chair. Slumps over.

“I'm the one who has to apologize,” he says. “I should never have blown up at you like that, but I've had too much in the way of bad news today. I'm at the end of my rope. Believe me, Alicia has nothing to do with Lisandra's death, but I can understand how you might have thought she did; if I'd been in your shoes, I would surely have had the same reaction.”

“So tell the police. If I could believe it, they'll believe it, too—there's so much incriminating evidence against her: the argument between you began about your wife, and the way she kept harping on about her, and attacking you where she was concerned. They'll go and question her, and even if she's not the one, even if as soon as they start questioning her it becomes obvious she's innocent, it will teach them to look elsewhere, it will teach them that you are innocent, Vittorio, by suggesting the possibility of someone else's guilt. Even if you don't believe in it, I beg you; otherwise they'll never look elsewhere, they'll stubbornly keep after you. And besides, they might be mistaken and lock up the wrong innocent person in your place.”

“Now you are talking nonsense.”

“I'm exaggerating . . . but at least if she were in prison, that woman would no longer have a mirror to look in—she might even be happier. But what did you find out? What is the bad news you mentioned just now?”

“The final results of the autopsy have come through: Lisandra died from her fall. Instantly. Her feet struck the ground first. Incredibly violently. Her high heels pierced her ankles. Her thigh bones were broken. Her body bounced. The back of her skull hit the ground. The back of her head was smashed. Internal bleeding. The autopsy shows no sign of a fight. No sign of strangling. No scratches or bruises. No sign of any blows. At least, not any blows that left a trace. The blood tests show nothing out of the ordinary. There was no trace of alcohol, drugs, or medication. But above all, and here the autopsy is categorical: Lisandra was not raped. I was so relieved when my lawyer told me. I had been thinking about it all the time; just the thought of it terrified me; I couldn't stand the thought she might have suffered like that. But just as I was feeling calmer, at least where that was concerned, my lawyer whispered to me that this was not a good thing. Didn't I realize what this would mean where I was concerned?”