the echoes

by Gilberte Farah

Seville slumbered late into the afternoon. But the town’s bleary-eyed torpor didn’t improve the insufferable attitude of its folk. It was obvious they didn’t like pandering to whomever tourist disregarded tildes, or mis-stressed vowels. Valentina was too embarrassed of her secondary school handle on the language, unpracticed for years, to attempt it. Worst of all, rolling r’s felt like pepper on the tongue. So, she and Christophe negotiated what services they needed between hand gestures and two-bite sentences.

After a rough ride, the taxista flouted their request to get close to the hotel curb. Which meant dragging broken-wheel suitcases down cobbled alleyways. Ah well. Gruff as the Spaniards could be, at least there was no fear of mugging, harassment for small change, or being guilt-tripped into buying brass trinkets or sloppy-streaked bongos as in Port Tangiers last week. Valentina wasn’t a woman charmed by frippery. She had, however, heard that there was a carpet clearinghouse. And Christophe had made good on his promise to take her there. A deftly woven throw would be the sole booty of their luggage haul – were they fortunate enough to find one. She thought about the pleasures of close-woven pile under bare feet. Patterned dreams of perfect symmetry, like the floor plan to a well-appointed home in which no one found reason to row. On the Tangiers bus tour, the guide pointed toward a pavement huddle of Berber women, a gathering cloud of flowy niqabs. Making rugs was woman’s work. Women were the weavers, the dyers, the finishers with small, adroit fingers. Men were the designers, the grand gesticulators, and at last, the profiters. 

Inside the ‘Karpet Kasbah’ three bearded men looked desperate for a sale. Surely these high stone walls - when bereft of carpets - held frightful echoes. The presentation began. Men raised rugs to their bodies and began a ventriloquistic dance, crisscrossing each other like harem girls. The virgin offerings were laid on the ground, and tour members invited to tread on them because, as one Berber man boasted, that’s what they’re made for. The men cheered crass encouragement, as some couples ventured apprehensive steps. But most took the opportunity to slip through the archway doors. Anxiety rose within Valentina like a sandstorm. Un-peopling a room exposed echoes. Echoes were wandering spirits, summoning souls to a land of limbo. Only one other couple remained. A stout American and his Latina wife, who whispered a strong accent into his ear. Valentina imagined he would do anything the lady advised.

“Everyone else is leaving. We might get left behind,” Valentina warned Christophe.

To her surprise, he held her hand steadily – even as she motioned him, like a fidgety schoolgirl, to follow the group. Christophe could be cold and censorious at times, so his spontaneous affections always disarmed her.

“Do you like any of them?” he encouraged, ignoring her fight-or-flee body-speak She feared being conned into a decision they might both regret. This was a man who didn’t spend a bad cent.

“You’re thinking we should get one?” she asked, cautiously. 

“We may never come this far again. So, if you see something you want…go ahead.”

Go ahead. Before the travel agency, she had worked for 5 years in luxe retail. Maybe she’d finally earned his trust in her taste.

“We can use some of the wedding money from your cousins,” she justified. It wasn’t like her decision would mean wasting their precious earnings, especially her work wage that barely covered electricity bills, and meagre groceries. 

At the Kasbah, the spatter of Arabic blood in Valentina’s veins from her Syrian great-grandfather pumped with new purpose. She watched the bearded men excitedly roll out simple shapes, and plain, earthy tones. She frowned. The styles grew more intricate. She tilted her head, almost keen. The men sensed they were succeeding in romancing her. In truth, she did not trust them. She imagined fraudulent credit card charges, Christophe booming over her what a waste of time that so-and-so-ferry ride and tour she organized was. Why did I let you spend yet another hundred pounds to find a place more corrupt than where we live? Another crying scene where she would plead her case: she did not set out to squander his money. With precise planning and strategy, she had landed a massive discount through the agency. She wasn’t going to let one port of call sabotage her savvy. Not this time Josephine.

Even with Kasbah’s high ceilings, it didn’t take more than a few minutes to get irritably hot. Valentina fanned away a double-sided dining room rug that the American Latin couple swooped up for U.S.$2000 and left, bargain-happy. It was high time for decision-making. Or stand the risk of Christophe railing ‘what a useless trip’ it was. Christophe remained surprisingly silent, allowing Valentina space, giving her control. The men, so self-assured an hour earlier, looked downcast, losing hope of another sale. Until one of them remembered a black bag just behind the cash counter. It was probably always there in instance dealings with stubborn women given rein of the purse-strings. The men collaborated, unpacking a cumbersome stack of silks. In the unfolding, Valentina saw everything. Deep colours shone and swam toward her like curious tropical fish. She dived straight into the realm of their oceanic placidity. Moving shapes made gulps of satisfying sounds. Surrounding them, triple diamonds, bordered by more diamonds, bouncing night seas, shimmering snowflake-medallions, sharp-edged flowers. Creams, corals, sand dunes and an inexplicable blue that delved the Mariana trench, unclear, all-embracing. A place too deep for echoes to reach.

“What are the dimensions?” she asked, masking her excitement.

Some were five-by-sevens. Not nearly large enough to fill a room. Far less, absorb echoes. Those were odd numbers too, which could mean bad luck. She fixed on one of the larger wonders – an eight-by-ten beauty, fringed at the edges like a dressage mare. Valentina used the astute Latina wife’s bid as a gauge. She would pay no more. Figures were quickly negotiated, haggled, squatted to clearance cost. The Berbers looked defeated but relieved.

*****

On the journey back to the hotel, Valentina’s thoughts reverted to the previous year. After two years together, she began to doubt if Christophe wanted to marry her. Obviously, he wasn’t sure about them. But the thought of leaving him ached like a virus. She needed to do something cheerful for herself – maybe commit some innocuous vanity. She had it! As a surprise for Christophe, she would pierce her ears for the first time. Most of Valentina’s friends’ mothers did it to their newborn girls, a tradition her mother considered barbarically low-class. But Valentina would soon be thirty. Maybe a pair of gold orbs might make her feel more glamorous. Maybe, stoke the fire anew between her and Christophe. His thoughts might even turn to marriage.

“How do they look?” she asked, eagerly.

“You’re a stunner no matter what, babe.”

It wasn’t a proposal, but it would do for now.

Aside from the stopper orbs, Valentina rarely wore jewelry. She could never afford it, and Christophe never bought her any. But she did remember the last time the sight of a lovingly crafted piece comforted her. A year ago, she went on the travel agency’s annual familiarization trip. Valentina would be in London for a week. It was then, Christophe announced that he would take the opportunity to visit an English ex who now lived in Boca Raton. Valentina was dumbfounded. She had no fast retort, except to stutter, “I-I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“Why not?” 

Valentina replied slowly, trying not trip over her own words, trying to sound methodical, despite the sudden sting in her chest, “Well, you two were…in a relationship. And it was you who ended it. She might still have feelings for you. Going back might give the impression you want her back.”

“Nah, I doubt that. We’ve always been good friends first.”

Valentina felt as though she was living a parallel existence. How dare he act so casual? She wanted to say, you fool, aren’t we’re together? You should stay here, wait for me! What was the use in stating obvious or making pointless demands? They’d been living at his Sunny-ever-after Ridge apartment long enough to claim common-law status. But it didn’t matter. She didn’t have the heart to fight. 

*****

On arrival to London, the pain of Christophe heaved upon her chest. Over the next few days, she was miserable during the work tours and presentations, missing the traitor. He didn’t even call to see that she’d arrived safely. He didn’t say it expressly, but she knew it was over. They would most likely sort the breakup details when she returned. But before that, she needed something to lighten her spirit. At the meeting day’s end, Valentina sought consolation in strolling museums by herself. Without a guide map, she wandered into the jewellery exhibit room of the Victoria and Albert Museum, and found herself transfixed by a pair of 1500BC burnished gold earrings. Stupidly, she wished she could instantly share what she had seen with Christophe. When he finally phoned in the evening, she bombarded his ear with detailed descriptions of the collections: hammered gold glowing before her eyes, emerald amulets to ward off evil, the Hawk Eye of Horus for protection. She barely let Christophe slip a word in, not wanting to hear anything about his past-tense-possibly-future tense-Allrounder-potato girlfriend. Then when Valentina ran out of words, a strange echo chased Christophe’s voice: a spirit had overtaken the long-distance line. Christophe knew Valentina loathed echoes. It was time to go, and a relief besides. There was nothing else to discuss. She would savour the memory of their penultimate days from afar. Soon she would sort through her hurt and her meagre belongings when she returned to Sunny-ever-after.

*****

Valentina landed a full day ahead of Christophe. Instead of unpacking and making mental notes of how many days were needed to box things up, she collapsed on their bed, in a fog of jet lag and grief.

In the morning, she bathed and dressed early to greet him. She donned his least favourite item of her clothing: a denim dress he claimed did nothing for her figure. Christophe turned up by taxi – Why didn't he want her to pick him up? Maybe it was better to give her the final verdict but there and then, so they didn't have to have uncomfortable silences driving back from the airport. She recalled the last time she asked Christophe to pick her up from the airport – last year was another familiarization trip to Miami. Christophe arrived a full 3 hours after the flight landed. When she asked why, he garbled strange excuses, none admitting the obvious: he simply forgot her. What a fool was she, waiting for so long after that. She thought to hire a car. But what if he turned up at that exact moment? These were the days before cellular phones. And there were virtually no unvandalized pay phones at the airport. Now there she was again, awaiting him. This time at his own front door. He paid the driver, picked up his bag and faced her, smiling broadly. His arms spanned open like kestrel wings,

“Vals! Oh, my Vals. Missed you so much!”

She felt herself draw towards him until their chests met. She could feel his heart thundering. Hers felt lugubriously slow, like she’d drunk Juliet’s sleeping potion.

He held her close. Valentina returned his embrace, albeit weakly. She did not have purpose to smile. Feeling claustrophobic, she wanted to pull apart after a few seconds, but he wouldn’t let her go.

“Hug me tight, Vals. Tight!”

She gave in and squeezed him slightly. She wanted to feel something strong. She hoped for a paroxysm of sobbing, but her lungs felt empty. Water wouldn’t come to her eyes.

When she was finally free, Christophe clutched her forearms as though they were in some swept away movie. She felt an impetuous confidence to give it all up, their two years. She would move in with one of her aunts. Anger was readying within her, to tell him off wildly for putting her in this position. She stared hard into his eyes and asked in the most controlled manner,

“How’s the big Rat?”

She expected him to retaliate. For he was an expert in guilt transference. Instead, he corrected her Spanish, “Rat’s Mouth you mean. Boca means mouth. It doesn’t mean big.”

“Oh, your Spanish improved in one trip. Mouth of a Rat, if it suits you.”

He smiled at her wit. “You always had a tongue like a whip”

They giggled at each other’s nibblings. But for Valentina, it was lighthearted misery that stung like the whip of a rat’s tail. They went inside the apartment. Christophe was back and visibly pleased to see her.  Valentina could feel her anger weakening. Maybe that was a good thing.

She was sparse in her line of questioning. Christophe was forthcoming, almost sincere. He admitted that Valentina was right. The ‘ex’ did want him back. But she had acted desperate. Thrown her arms around him. Tried to kiss him on the mouth (he turned his cheek). Could he blame her? He did tell her he was coming to see her specifically. What did he expect? He’d led her on. He was cruel to do that. Cruel. Naturally the old girl wanted him back. But the truth – the real truth – was, when he saw her again, he found her unappealing. Not in her ways: she was always a kind and lovely person, genuine in nature. She hadn’t changed since he’d last seen her. But he realized—shallow as it sounded—that she was plain. A stringy blonde with thinning hair and too much potato plump. A fading English rose in foxglove lipstick. Foxglove: a colour she wore with pride since the 80s. Her teeth were dinged yellow from when they smoked together in their twenties in London. They had also reached their own penultimate moment when Foxglove’s mother penned a letter of concern. Christophe was causing her only daughter to live in sin. He needed to act honourably, she wrote, and he needed to do it now. For Christophe, honour meant leaving London, and Foxglove. Valentina knew their backstory and often worried she might repeat the same fate. Except Valentina had less family support. Her own mother died years ago, and her father quickly remarried. They had left no emerald amulet, no falcon eye to watch over her.

Never mind all that. Valentina continued the narrative in her head: Foxglove was an impatient girl. Christophe had no business marrying anyone back then. To worsen matters, Foxglove’s family got too involved. Besides, Foxglove was nothing like the real stunner Christophe would meet later. The stunner who was right before his renewed eyes.

Valentina smiled absently at the revived ‘stunner’ compliment – a name he hadn’t called her in a long time. But he instantly picked up on her reserve. She was not looking into his eyes but daydreaming through the wrought iron cage of his apartment. This was not her place and she felt the awkwardness of it. Until, he knelt before her, sliding opening her lap, thanking her profound patience with his folly. He swore on Boy Scout’s honour nothing else happened between him and Foxglove. There was nothing further to report in ‘Rat Mouth’. Nor did Valentina care to know.

Christophe became very attentive that afternoon, inquiring about her London trip. Oh, now how he’d wished now he’d been with her. They would go back together someday, he promised. She forgot her pain for a moment and raved again about the jewelry exhibit and then about the original patrons. Victoria and Albert: the lovers, the copious breeders. The rulers. How on Earth did people find mutually agreeable partners who would be so sure about them, who they could stand for long periods, and still find time to run a nation?

“I don’t know but right now, I want to reign all over your nation,” Christophe rudely joked. The mood lightened a little, the bitterness softened.

That night in bed, they made love. Deliciously deep love. She could tell he was trying his best to win her back. In the morning, he proposed. She wasn’t surprised. They both knew this was a make-or-break moment.

“I want to get you a ring,” he announced, resolutely, as though he had been deliberating the thought all night and finally found his eureka.

“Okay,” she smiled quietly, still powerless from the lovemaking and the thought of him flying off just a week earlier.

“Choose a style you liked from the V+A. Any era, and we’ll have it made.”

They began again. More ravenously than before. Then he fell asleep soundly. For some reason, in her victory, she felt a kind of pain thinking of the faded English girl with the foxglove lipstick, and bad teeth who he left behind in London. Then he did it to her again, three years on. This time in the Mouth of a Rat.

*****

On their final day in Seville, the bus passengers were falling into a lull. She was settled for the hour. Roman aqueduct walls and space-age harp bridges strummed a chord of serenity in her soul. He could read the music on her face as she pensively stared out the window.

“I love to see you like this,” he said. He admired her girlish fascination with new views.

She secretly enjoyed his stare. Wonderment welled up in her eyes when they travelled together, especially when he was romantic. But she knew it was only a matter of him before she displeased him again. Despite it all, there were times she still craved his company. Things could have been worse. She had tried…Lord knows she did. Maybe she had spent too much of his money without realizing it. She couldn’t remember how, but she must have. Yet small indulgences never impressed her. He was off the hook for giving her flowers on Valentine’s and anniversaries. She didn’t expect them. She was over-bored seeing Chilean roses from the luxe shop where she once worked. Not even tiger-lilies burning bright. They smelled funereal. Instead, she wanted to stroll through the rows and rows of living, bobbling tulips in Veldheer Gardens. Someday they might have gone there too, if they could save up enough and synchronize their holidays at the right time. A second honeymoon in a few years? If they collected enough credit card mileage.

The return drive from Seville to Marbella was not serene. She was useless at map-reading, and he could sense it every time she was about to make him take the wrong turn. He grew rabidly impatient at her lack of bearings. Planning was too important, and he hated time wasting. Trying to defend herself, she blamed it on the left-brain faultiness of her gender, and he punished her facetiousness by insisting she was moronic. In arguments he called her ‘Brainiac’ over and over in the worst intonations. She remembered those days were like being locked outdoors during an eclipse. She couldn’t scream at a deadpan moon, so she cried and commended herself back to him in messy tears. He was always sorry when he reduced her to tears. Truly, truly sorry. And he was very, very wrong. He apologized incessantly and their life reset. They would make love and be in love again.

*****

When he considered their combined finances, every word she breathed, quietly or with constitution, aggravated him. And yet surprisingly her movements and gestures still turned him on like a switch. When he went away for work, he told her he imagined her semi-starved body that subsisted on popcorn and golden-apple dinners and that would send him into a blitz of pornographic thoughts. She began to believe that he cherished her best when they were apart. And, she thought, for that one honeymoon month in Europe. In a Seville Plaza, they posed in gaudy mosaic cubicles near lively water fountains. She took a snap of him pointing to a glittery rainbow halo over his head from the fountain stream. She made the sign of the cross and they took turns posing for photos outside the Catedral. At the river café, she sipped expresso, he had English breakfast tea overlooking the Guadalquivir.

*****

Months after the honeymoon, she awoke in the starkest part of night, a tingling pain in her left arm…not a good sign. She boxed into the air, left-hooked into the darkness. Created new moves, flexing her tri-cep and curling her fists, she thought to let out sounds of release, but she could not. She tried to hypnotize herself reciting her own mantras, “I am feeling well. There is no need to think about tomorrow.”

“I had a dream,” he said when he woke. Usually, he despised dreams as much as she did echoes. Dreams were fallacies. Telling people your dreams was arrogance. Nighttime dreams weren’t even dreams at all. They were unpleasant episodes – spirit possessions, though he claimed he didn’t believe in that superstitious load of crock. He fought to forget all. Fortunately, dreaming was rare, but when he did, it jostled him from sleep. Since seeing Foxglove in Boca Raton sealed his decision, since they got married, in his dreams, Valentina was always leaving him. One was by way of a phone call while on holiday. One was face to face, surrounded by an army of cross-armed, cross-faced family members. It was like something was trying to catch him up and he was almost caught.  

*****

So, they were home again. The place where they had raised their babies, where they fought, and where she had cried forgiveness time and again for inciting his anger. The Moroccan rug was sandwiched tight, bound with twine—one of the few things he agreed to help her with, one of the things he gave freely, without complaint. She remembered the cold sweats coming back from Spain, walking through the customs green line with an entire ocean in her bag. She’d left behind her boots to accommodate it. The Berber man showed her just how compact you could pack it up. Easy like that. A magic trick she could perform herself.

They had completely forgotten about the eerie pinging in the master bedroom when there was no more furniture, no silk carpet to absorb the noise. The sound ricocheted like a tiny ball of rubber, impossible to catch. Christophe and Valentina began to do childish things. Yodeling in different octaves, reciting “Figaro”, “Carmen”, stomping a gypsy flamenco, imitated from the last dinner show in Seville, fifteen years ago. They entertained each other with antics. He found a silk ginger lily dry rotting on the bookshelf that was permanently fixed to the wall, and clamped the dusty stem between his teeth. 

“I thought that was a Tango move?”  she smiled.

He laughed at her, remembering how endearing she could be. True, she often accompanied thoughtless quips with a furrowing of the brows—a trait that annoyed him. But tonight, it was charming to hear her.  She strapped her arms around his nape and could feel his scar ridge resulting from the car accident in Seville, a ridge he surprisingly now adored having stroked. He chuckled at her forwardness. It was a wonderful last date, a well-woven reverie.

They kissed hard and deep. Her mouth opened wide for him. Their bodies submerged. Neon flashed through her head. How did an aneurysm feel? Did it come with a short warning before the twinge of ending? Could you feel the burst? Her uncle, who was clinically dead once on the tennis court after cardiac arrest, but was revived by his opponent, said he did not even remember falling. Uncle had said he remembered it felt like some unpleasant indigestion. He sipped water, dropped the racquet and boom! A breaker had tripped—that quick.             

Valentina made it easy. She relented fully, thawing the coolest of his defenses. Not the kind of competitive tongue-fencing that preceded their usual encounters. Was it possible, during a deep kiss, to mouth a question, and hear the secret answer in echo, without the confessor even realizing? She’d opened her mouth so wide, he let his tongue go searching. Her mouth was an underwater cavern hard-hit by swooping waves, into which you could shout echoes and rattle fragile stalactites. The kiss left him barely breathing.

“You’ve become a blow-mind kisser,”

An odd pain came to his chest—was he falling for her again? He lay down on the floor beside her, the left of his chest tingled. He massaged it with one finger to help the feeling go away. One-finger massages reminded him of her. She didn’t like massages and when he asked her to do his back, she would straddle him steadily, then lose her pep. Her hands got tired after twenty minutes, and she started using indexes only. How lazy, he complained. Anything to get out of such a tiresome task. The uneasy chest was coming back. He kept statin pills in his wallet just to be safe. Valentina had an idea, “Just lie here.” 

They spent what felt like an hour helping him breathe from the belly. A trick she learned from her Kundalini classes. She was glad she could teach him something that might save him some day.

After that he needed the toilet. She did not comment on the length of time he stayed in the bathroom, nor did she seem anxious when he emerged. It was the last time after all. She did not instantly offer him the envelope, but he knew she was waiting. She wondered, did he flush twice or at least pump the handle? Probably not. But she decided not to ask. It didn’t matter at this point, even though it would be a gross welcome for newcomers.

Still groggy from their session, he dragged his body along the table made of purple heart wood, the only piece of furniture left behind, which meant nothing to either of them because it came with the house from the day they took possession a score of years ago. Besides, how can you feel sentimental about something over which you staked no pains together? Trusting her and tired – for he knew she was always a fair and measured woman, even when she knew she was possibly being cheated. He glanced the legalese, amended one or two misspellings. He smiled playfully, “Is Absolute the only brand it comes in?”  

He was trying to draw her back in, recalling the melee of their first Carnival season together. Brazen women flirted. He relished the attention a bit too much. Something else to worry about. On the two street-days, their band passed the highway stadium. A mammoth billboard stood, a vodka bottle, costumed fuchsia pink: Absolut Carnivale. He wanted her to remember the ‘good times.’ She looked at him firmly. He signed where she had marked X. She could finally be at ease, “They had the best marketing.”

He nodded. Indeed, they did.

Photo of Gilberte Farah

BIO: Gilberte is a writer, originally hailing from Trinidad, but currently living in the U.K. Her poetry and stories have been published in the U.S.A., U.K., Holland. Australia and The Caribbean.