Stranger (2 page)

Typically, when Íso arrived home, she ate supper with her mother, and then she sat at the counter in the tienda and she tended to the customers and she worked at her reading for the literature course she took every Saturday morning at the American School in Panajachel. Her mother appeared now and then in the dimness of the tienda, but by 9 p.m. she had disappeared and found her bed. Íso would join her around eleven, and she would read for fifteen minutes, and then she would turn out the light and fall asleep, and at some point during the night her mother would be holding Íso's hip, or perhaps clutching her hand, and then Íso would fall asleep again, and sometimes she would dream and in the dreams she was often in charge of a young child, or a frail woman who resembled a child, and she had a difficult time keeping track of her charge. This particular dream always left her with a sense of foreboding. In the morning, she rose, had a light breakfast of papaya and coffee, and returned to the clinic.

S
HE
hadn't seen Doctor Mann all that week. He'd been deliberately absent, or he'd avoided her, or she'd avoided him. And then he phoned her Friday evening, and she felt the same way she always did when she saw him after an absence, or when she heard his voice on the phone—a closing of the throat, a little leap in her chest, a fire in her brain, a blood vessel beating behind her right eye.

He asked how she was, and she said she was fine. He said the week had been long, and she said, Forever. He said, She adores you, and to this she had no answer. The desire she'd felt upon first hearing his voice had left her.

I haven't spoken with her, he said, but others, they've heard. You've won her heart.

Why are you telling me this? she said. I don't want to know who she loves and why.
Your
heart. That's what I want. Not hers. I miss you terribly. When I'm working with her, when she speaks, when I think of the two of you, I miss you.

Yes, he said. I know. I know.

For a moment she imagined that Eric was a weak man who wanted everything for no price. She was confused. She felt unsafe and vulnerable. Does she know about us? she asked.

Nothing. She suspects nothing.

But she should know.

This isn't the time.

Then I will tell her.

You could. But it wouldn't change anything. She means nothing to me. You mean everything.

She was quiet. Then she said, She's like all the other women I've treated. She's spoiled. She's sad. She's full of want. She's greedy. She sees only herself.

You're angry.

No. I'm only telling the truth. Then she said that she didn't want to think about the next day.

It's nothing, he said.

To me it is everything. And to her it is everything. Do you want a child with her?

No, I don't.

Then why have sex with her?

I won't.

Of course you will. What else will you do? Play checkers? She tells me that her skin is aware of your presence. She's been waiting. Íso began to cry. And as she cried silently, holding the phone to her ear, she was ashamed to reveal herself in this way.

He said her name, over and over, and when she was able to speak again, she said that she was going dancing with Illya on Saturday night, in Pana. You could come with me, she said.

I could.

But you won't.

Íso.

It makes me sad.

Don't be. One more week.

Say that you love me.

And so he said that he loved her, and then she said that she loved him, but after he had hung up her chest ached, and she thought that she might be a fool to imagine she had any advantage over a woman like Susan.

O
N
Saturday, riding the boat to Panajachel, she was aware of the day and what it meant. The waves were high and the bow of the boat rose and fell and the hull banged steadily and the banging
sound was full of meaning, as were the wind and the spray that hit her face. After class, at 1 p.m., as she walked over to visit Illya, she was aware that Eric would be meeting his wife for tea, and she knew that they would be going out for dinner that evening. And she knew that they would have sex. Husbands often visited their wives at the clinic during the second week of treatment, when the patient was more relaxed and open. Open. The word was full of meaning.

Íso had known Illya for many years
—they had graduated together. Illya's mother was from Argentina and her father was from Spain, and they owned a shop in Panajachel that sold copper cooking pots shipped in from France. The mother, Rosa, was in fact the one with the business head, and she ran the shop while the father, Eduardo, sat at home and smoked up and organized the books for the business in his disorganized manner. Illya loved her father, because he made no demands on her.

Illya knew about Doctor Mann. Right from the beginning, after the doctor's first visit to the tienda, Íso had told her everything.

Illya had asked what would happen when the doctor went back to the States.

We'll still be friends, Íso said.

You'd be lucky to catch him, Illya said.

He'd be lucky to catch me.

Is he a playboy? Illya asked.

No. No.

Maybe he'll invite you to his home, Illya said. Come with me. Be my lover.

What would I do in the States? I don't even have permission papers. In any case, the border is sealed. He doesn't talk like that.

Illya took Íso's head in her hands and kissed her on the forehead. Be careful, she said. Men can be greedy. Does he speak Spanish with you?

English.

Spanish is more romantic, Illya said.

Eric's Spanish is not romantic. It's elementary. Everything's in the present.

That's the problem. Teach him the future tense.

And they had laughed.

Today, she found Illya in the garden with her boxer, Bella. Illya came to her and kissed her and took her arm and they sat side by side while Bella panted at their feet.

Íso said, He
's with his wife right now.

Illya made a face. She said, Susan Mann has no advantage over you. She's desperate. She's hanging on. We've both seen her kind before. A skinny gringa. You have to be colder. Then he will come to you. The more you pull, she said, the more he'll run. A boy, a man, he is like an untrained dog who thinks that because you don't allow him to sniff the pole over there, that pole is the most precious spot in the world. Let him go, she said. And he will come running back.

She bent to kiss Bella's head. You beautiful bitch, she said.

They washed each other's hair that afternoon, and then tried on dresses and skirts and tops, finally choosing something that Illya said was sexy. She said that to find another man would make
the doctor jealous. Íso said she had no interest in other men. That evening they went to a club and danced together, and Íso ignored the boys and the men. She loved the music, the bass as it moved through her body, the sweating, Illya across from her, eyes closed, her small body swaying. They left the club late and walked back to Illya's house and ate cold watermelon in the garden alongside the kitchen. They talked about the boys at the club, and they talked about men in general, and then they talked about love, and Illya spoke of her fiancé in Argentina, and of her upcoming marriage. And so, for a time, Íso forgot about the doctor and his wife, and she forgot about her life on the other side of the lake.

O
N
Monday, when she arrived at Doctor Mann's wife's door, she had prepared herself for tales of passion and desire, but Susan said nothing about Saturday. And because of this, it was clear that Eric had not spoken to her about Íso or about anything else that was important. Íso felt hollow. Her breathing was shallow and quick. Susan stood and began to remove her clothes in order to take the waters. She'd become very free in front of Íso. She stood naked before the mirror, inspecting herself. She asked if Íso liked her.

Yes, I do, Íso said.

I mean my body. Is it attractive?

Yes, it is, Íso said. She was looking at the back of Susan's head. She saw her hair and her one ear, and she saw Susan studying herself.

Susan said, A lover once told me that he liked my feet the best.

You have very beautiful feet.

They stepped into the pool.

Susan lay back and looked up at the grass roof. She closed her eyes. She said she was afraid that she would fail. That the rituals, the baths, the massages would not change her world. She said she missed having her period. She thought that men, even though they wouldn't admit it, were drawn to the blood.

Íso let her talk. She half
listened. She was curious about the lover. She supposed that Susan might be right about the blood. The water was warm. She felt loose. Wild. In seven days she would be with him. They would ride his motorcycle into the highlands and halt by the side of the road and stand in the shade of a eucalyptus and hold each other. Later, in the evening, in his room, he would lie beside her while candles guttered on the dresser.

Susan opened her eyes. You're still here, she said. I couldn't feel you.

I'm here, Íso said.

T
HERE
were three birthing chambers at the clinic. The chambers were cone-shaped and the cone sat on its head so that the widest part opened to the skylight above. Observation rooms sat above the chamber, and during a birth these rooms were occupied by the women who had come to the clinic to take the waters in the hopes of curing their infertility. On Tuesday afternoon, Íso and Susan watched the birth of a child who was to be “handed over,”
a process arranged by the clinic. The birth mother was a young woman, in her early twenties. There was a nurse present, and a local midwife. The mother-to-be was lying on the bed. She was very quiet, even when the contractions arrived. She did not ask for help. She did not want medication. She breathed quickly and turned her head to the side, and then she raised her head from the pillow on the bed and she bent forward as if to discover something far below her, and the baby was born. How surely and efficiently it all happened. The midwife caught the baby. She cut the umbilical cord. She wrapped the baby in a blanket. She smoothed the baby's head. Kissed it. And then the baby was passed to the mother. The mother held it at a distance. She touched the hands and then the feet. Released the blanket and inspected the infant thoroughly. A door into the chamber opened and an older woman appeared. She was dressed in white. She approached and held out her hands for the baby, and the mother passed the infant into the older woman's arms. The woman in white then turned and left the chamber. The young mother lay down and eventually produced the afterbirth. Her face was without passion. Again, she did not cry out.

The doctor's wife seemed overwhelmed. That's all? she said. She doesn't get to hold the baby? To breastfeed?

No. It's too difficult. She'll never see the child again.

She asked if Íso ever got used to watching.

Íso didn
't respond directly. She said that a woman never gave up two babies. It was too difficult. Even though the demand was high and the price good.

The baby was beautiful, said Susan.

Íso agreed. She said that the child was very healthy.

The doctor's wife was holding Íso's hand. As if a friend. Íso was aware of Susan's shallow breaths, and of the clenching and unclenching of Susan's fingers against her own hand. She was so lost. Íso felt her own heart grow cold.

And her heart grew even colder the following day. Susan lay naked on the massage bed, face down, her bottom covered by a towel. She asked Íso if she had children of her own.

Íso said that she didn
't.

Susan asked if she would like to have children.

I think someday, Íso said.

Susan spoke of the infant who had been taken the day before. It was sad to watch, but the child would have tremendous advantages. Money, food, comfort, education, citizenship, freedom.

All those things are available here, Íso said. Immediately she was sorry. It was not her place to argue with a patient, even if the patient was wrong.

Of course, Susan said. You're right. But you're mistaken as well. What we have in America is a surplus. It doesn't make us better—that's just the way it is.

Íso
helped the doctor's wife turn onto her back. She covered Susan's breasts and her crotch with warm towels. Her ribcage was sharply defined. Her concave stomach, her belly button. Íso felt appalled by Susan's emptiness, her vanity, her ignorance. Her hands were shaking, and she worried that Susan would notice. And so she descended into igual. She wished for nothing.

The week passed.

Susan said goodbye to Íso on Friday afternoon. She would depart the following morning, early. Íso was surprised by Susan's warmth, and her generous hug, and the looseness in her body.

Think of me, Susan said.

I will, Íso answered.

Susan kissed her on one cheek and then the other. She clasped Íso's hands. She hugged her again.

I'm afraid, Susan said.

I know, Íso said.

I may return.

It's possible.

And you will be here.

That's probable.

Susan laughed.

Íso stepped back.

And they parted.

D
OCTOR
E
RIC
M
ANN HAD ARRIVED AT THE CLINIC IN
J
ANUARY,
in the midst of the dry season, six months before the appearance of his wife. He was an American gynaecologist who was attractive and elegant and friendly. He was very popular: with the director, who was happy to have an American doctor at the clinic; with the keepers, who found him to be both handsome and carefree; and with the patients themselves, who claimed that the doctor's hands had mysterious powers. Rumour had it that Doctor Eric Mann had been married, but that his wife had left him and so he was now single. What was exactly true was unclear. He lived off the clinic grounds, at a hotel that bordered the lake, and he was frequently seen on weekends riding his motorcycle to the various pueblos that surrounded the lake. He was quite a sight, with his long blond hair flowing out behind him and his sunglasses.
The picture he presented was romantic and tender, almost to the point of caricature. His attempts at speaking the local language endeared him to the people. He might have thought of himself as an American Che, a doctor who worked with the poor and lowly, only he worked mostly with the wealthy and despondent women who appeared at the clinic. Women who no longer loved themselves, but hoped to rekindle that love as they took the waters. In truth, Doctor Mann was interested in the people from the village. He had greater affection for them than he did for the wealthy women he treated. He proposed to the director that the clinic should be expanded to include general care for the villagers: physicals, treatments of infections, minor outpatient surgery, dietary guidance, maternity advice. And so it came to be that these services were provided, and were funded by the thousands of dollars that the barren women paid to take the waters.

The first time Íso spoke to Doctor Mann it was as a translator for a village girl who was five months pregnant and was spotting. The girl was very young, about seventeen, and though it was not uncommon in the region for girls that young to have children, the doctor seemed surprised by her youthfulness. If the girl felt pain, she did not show it. She and Íso spoke in the local dialect. Íso asked various questions. The girl explained that she had been in the hills with her husband, collecting firewood, and she had fainted.

Íso translated.

Doctor Mann asked if the girl had carried to full term before. Does she have other children?

Yes, Íso said. This is her second. Her first child is two. She had
a miscarriage a year ago. Very similar to this. She began to spot, and then there was heavy bleeding and she lost the fetus.

And how do you know all this? Doctor Mann asked.

I asked. She told me. When Íso spoke she looked briefly into the doctor's face and his eyes, and then turned away slightly, in order to pay him respect. He was, after all, a doctor.

She's very young, Doctor Mann said. He recommended bedrest. She was to stay at the clinic.

The family can't afford it, Íso said.

She doesn't have to pay. She'll lose the baby if she goes home.

The husband will insist on taking her home.

That's silly. There is no understanding here of health or safety. It's all instinct and witchcraft. They're afraid of science.

Perhaps they're afraid because science doesn't have a heart or a soul.

Doctor Mann looked at her for a long time and then asked, What's your name?

She said that she was called “Eee-so.” She spelled it: Í-S-O. She said that sometimes patients called her “eye-so.” You're free to do that, of course, but I might not come when you call. She knew that she was being cheeky, but she couldn't help herself. She was nervous.

He said he hadn't heard that name before.

She said it was short for Paraíso.

He tried out her name, Paraíso, but the vowels were all wrong.

Íso is simplest, she said.

Of course.

And you're Doctor Mann, she said. Her statement appeared to be a mock greeting, but it wasn't. It was the first time she had addressed him directly, and because English didn't allow for the formal voice, she was off balance. She was also a little in awe, and still nervous, and when this happened, she tended to be dismissive. She knew of him. All the keepers were aware of him. They gossiped. They observed. They gossiped some more. Doctor Mann was impossible to miss as he strode through the corridors and gardens of the clinic.

Íso and the doctor
were standing at the foot of the girl's bed. He was wearing his lab coat. The sleeves of the coat were too short and Íso noticed his wrists and the blond hair there. His fingers were slender. His stethoscope hung to the middle of his chest. His eyes were green or blue, and only later did she realize that they were like the waters of the lake, which shifted in moods from dark blue to green to light blue. At that time, at that moment, she didn't imagine that he had even noticed her, except as a translator. She had no designs. She was simply observing.

The doctor said that if the girl wanted to save the baby, she had to stay in bed. Even so, she might lose it.

Íso translated.

The girl nodded.

She asked the girl if she had someone to help her with the older child.

The girl said that her abuelita lived with them.

Good, Íso said.

She turned to explain this to the doctor, but he was gone.

A
WEEK
after
Íso
had translated for Doctor Mann, he stopped her on the path that wound down to the pool area and inquired about the girl. Was there news? Íso said she hadn't heard, but she could drop by the family's home and check on the girl. She knew the house.

In the evening, around dinnertime, Íso made her way to the home of the girl. The sun had set. The houses were lit. Young boys walked hand in hand in the streets, and a child squatted near the entrance to her family's tienda. Nearby, an old woman sat before her fruit press, her clean glasses stacked beside the basket of oranges. Íso greeted everyone she met, and they greeted her in return.

The house of the pregnant girl was built from cinder blocks, the roof was corrugated metal, the floor was packed earth upon which there were scattered various rugs of bright colours. The girl was lying on a bed in the front room. Her abuela sat beside the bed. Íso was offered tea. She declined. She stood before the girl and asked if all was fine.

The girl nodded.

No more blood? Íso asked.

The girl said that she had not bled since leaving the clinic.

Íso asked if the baby had been moving at all.

The girl nodded.

Like before?

Yes, the girl said. The baby is very strong.

The abuela listened and nodded. She held the older child in her lap.

I'd like to look, Íso said. Okay?

The girl said that she could look.

Íso lifted the girl
's T-shirt and touched her abdomen. She pressed against the wall of the uterus and asked if there was any pain. Here? And here? There?

Each time the girl shook her head.

And you're staying in bed as the doctor said?

Yes.

She told the girl that she wanted to see if there was blood. Okay? The girl agreed. Íso slipped the girl's underwear down to her thighs. She saw no fresh blood. She pulled up the girl's underwear and replaced the blanket. She smiled. It was much easier to work with a Tz'utujil woman than with the foreigners at the clinic. She stood and said that Doctor Mann had asked after the girl. He was concerned. She said that if there was any problem—if there was more blood, or if the girl fainted or felt weak, or if she noticed that the baby was not moving—she should come back to the clinic. Okay?

The girl nodded.

The abuela spoke. She said that she herself had had six children, all girls. And she'd had two children who were born dead, and these two were both boys. She said that a child knows if it's healthy. And if this is so, it will come into the world. Otherwise, it won't. She said that her granddaughter's baby would be born in twelve weeks, and it would be a boy. She took Íso's hand and thanked her.

The following day, Íso told Doctor Mann that the girl was fine. She said that the abuela knew everything there was to know about
childbirth, and she even knew the sex of the baby. The pregnant mother was in good hands.

Doctor Mann said that every grandmother in the village believed she was a midwife, or a doctor, or a soothsayer, and that had proven to be a problem in the past. They don't know about malpresentation, he said. They don't understand preeclampsia.

Not the words, Íso said, but they know the physical problem. They are women. They've had babies before.

He studied her. He asked her age.

She said she was twenty-two.

He said, You seem older.

This was obviously flirtatious, almost wrong, but she didn't care, and it surprised her that she didn't care. He asked where she had learned to speak English without an accent. She said at the American School in Panajachel. He asked about her intentions. Did she plan to stay at the clinic, working as a keeper? She said that once she had enough money, she planned to go to the city and continue studying medicine. Her goal was to graduate and then work at a local hospital. She wondered, when she said this, if he might think that she was making this up on the spot, or that she was only trying to impress him, to match him in some way. But it was true, medicine was her intention. And it was the dream of her mother, who had spent much of the money she had made from the tienda on sending Íso across the lake to the American School. She was an only child. There were hopes and expectations.

W
HEN
Doctor Mann arrived one day at the door to her mother's tienda, it appeared to be by chance, but it wasn't. He'd come looking for her. He bought a quart of ice cream and ate it as he stood beneath the awning of the shop. It was a Sunday, his day off, and her day off as well. They spoke English. He told her that her English was very smooth and pure. This is how he put it. Pure. He was flattering and clear and kind, and he looked her in the eyes as he spoke these words, and because he wasn't a doctor at that moment and she wasn't a keeper, she looked at his eyes and saw that they were blue.

He offered her some ice cream, but she refused because it hurt her teeth. He said that she should call him Eric. The other makes me feel old, he said.

She asked his age.

He said he was thirty. Is that old? he asked.

She said it didn't matter to her.

You're a strange one, he said. And then he said he would see her again, and he climbed on his motorcycle and left her standing in the street. She sat behind the counter in the tienda and tried not to think of him, but this was impossible. And so she thought about the colour of his hair and the colour of his eyes and the slight crookedness of his mouth that made it seem as if he was just about to smile, and the manner in which he leaned into her as he asked her questions, as if no one else existed save her. Even later, when they became very close, and when they were out with a group of interns or other foreigners, she was aware of how explicit he was in his attention to the person he was speaking with. It didn't have
to be her. Though she wanted it to be. And she suffered jealousy, a feeling she had never experienced in a large way before. The jealousy surprised her. She felt unbalanced, and she wondered where such a strong emotion had come from.

In the evenings he began to drop by the tienda, where she sat behind the counter serving customers and, when there was a lull, reading and writing. She was always waiting, listening for the sound of his motorcycle—the low, smooth hum of the Honda, which was cleaner and softer than the tinny racket of the Chinese-made motorcycles that moved up the street towards the market. He approached from the playa, following the one-way street, and he parked his bike, turned it off, and pushed back his blond hair. He swung his leg over the saddle and walked into the tienda and said good evening to her in Spanish. She pretended surprise, even though she had been watching him, and she responded in Spanish and for a time they spoke her language, and when his restricted vocabulary was depleted, they spoke English. He was very good at not talking about himself, even though she wanted to hear about his life. He asked her what she was reading and she told him, and he asked about her Saturdays at the American School and she told him that she was taking a class in English literature, and he asked her if she was smart, and she laughed and said she was all right.

I think so, he said. He asked about her friends and she told him about Illya, who also worked as a keeper. You must know her, she said.

He did.

She said that Illya was her best friend. She held her hand to
her chest when she said this, surprising herself with the emotion she felt.

He asked if there was a boy who was also such a good friend, a novio, and she said, Sin novio. She asked him if there was a novia in his life.

He said no.

No wife? she asked. This was very forward, but she wanted to know. In fact, she thought that if he was going to flirt with her, she had the right to know.

No more, he said.

What does that mean? she asked. She's dead?

He laughed. No, I live here and she lives there. We're separated.

Íso nodded. And this is true?
she asked. She said that her mother would like to know.

True, he said. You can tell your mother. Are there any other questions?

She tilted her head. What's her name? she asked.

Susan.

Is she beautiful?

In her way.

What way is that?

As someone who is aware that others are looking at her.

He might just as easily have been describing himself, but she did not share this thought. She kept it as part of her tally, in which she gauged who he was and how he behaved, and how he might reveal himself to her. This was still early on, when she was capable of some objectivity, before she tumbled into adoration.