hagiography

“In order to conceal her wish, she had evidently chosen a situation in which such wishes are usually suppressed, a situation in which one is filled with so much grief that one has no real thought of love …”

Joanna tapped her fingers on the hard backed Freud. Soon it would be dinner time, as usual she would order spaghetti and sit alone in a corner. It did not appear to be working, she thought, this holiday of a lifetime. Paul, the bastard, never seemed that far from her mind. She felt her lips tighten. And it was so bloody hot here, everything permanently covered in dust. Maybe she could masturbate. No, no, that would just bring it all back.

“In connection with this question of being in love we have always been struck by the phenomenon of sexual overvaluation – the fact that the loved object enjoys a certain amount of freedom from criticism, and that all its characteristics are valued more highly than those of people who are not loved …”

She remembered Paul's constant griping and complaining. Depending on his mood she was either too fat, too thin, too loud, too quiet, not enough fun. “Go with the flow,” he used to say. What flow? All he ever did was stumble from one crisis to the next. That's not flowing, it's a flood of stupidity. Stupid, stupid bastard. The tapping became a drumming.

“Love is derived from the capacity of the ego to satisfy some of its instinctual impulses auto-erotically by obtaining organ pleasure …”

Which would explain glorious Gloria (G L O R I A), all heaving eighteen stone of her. “But she likes to experiment,” Paul said. Time and time again he'd accused accused Joanna of being “Frigid”. He didn't want to understand that she was ill, had been affected, simple couldn't. Bastard, she thought, all men are bastards, all men are rapists, but she didn't want to go there, hence the reason she'd travelled to Quito instead.

“If a love-relation with a given object is broken off, hate not infrequently emerges in its place, so that we get the impression of a transformation of love into hate …”

Joanna threw the Freud across the room, wiped away angry tears and dragged an old cardigan onto her back. She had promised herself she wouldn't do this, not again, not go round in the same old vicious circles. It was killing her by degrees, scooping her out until she felt hollow. She rammed her sandals on her feet, catching her little toes, the stabs of pain seemed appropriate.

Outside, in the street, old Quito was coming to life. Once the blasting heat of the day had diminished, the ancestral city could breathe. Women spread their brightly coloured blankets on uneven pavements. Soon there would be small pyramids of fruit, handmade necklaces and rough silverware to buy. Joanna tried to be interested, in the flesh and trinkets, but she found herself staring at the young people. It had become her habit to watch them every night. At sunset they laughed and joked and the whole street could hear their loud flirtations. The boys would sit, usually on their battered motor scooters, while the girls walked arm in arm around and about them. Drinks were offered, eyelashes fluttered, whispers exchanged. And then, when the moon was high in the sky, several couples would disappear down towards the lake. On one occasion Joanna followed them. She stood in amongst the bushes and listened while they grunted and groaned their way through sex. It had been a long time since Joanna had made those noises herself, but tonight she planned to struggle through some more Freud, 'On Metapsychology', it was a matter of pride. Paul could have all the sex he wanted, with whoever he wanted, she didn't care. Just because his brains were in his genitals didn't mean hers had to be. She would find closure, so her therapist claimed, by understanding the problem. Once she understood it she could articulate it and then, supposedly, she would be able to break out of this self imposed hell. A sudden explosion of foreplay laughter from the libidinal youngsters sent Joanna scurrying back to the safety of her hotel.

In the restaurant dinner was in full swing. She had wanted to stay in modest accommodation and Casa Alpes was very modest. Like most of old Quito the place was crumbling. Colonial decadence had given way to native poverty some time ago, as evidenced by peeling paint and small clusters of rubble. No-one seemed to mind, because the easy nakedness suited the climate, slight disintegration is possible when the sun shines all day every day.

The waiter was rather dull and inefficient. He slouched and mumbled. The woman behind the counter was forever shouting at him in rapid fire Spanish. He did nothing to dodge these verbal bullets, they did not appear to injure him or alter his behaviour in any way whatsoever.

She watched the other diners. A middle aged couple, seated in a booth, were having an intimate meal. They held hands across the table. A second honeymoon maybe, or a second marriage. By the door several exhausted backpackers lounged about. They were Israeli, Joanna could tell by their guttural accents. In the past few months, wherever she went on her travels, she found herself surrounded by Israelis. She assumed this was some right of passage adventure, prior to joining the army, or following their military service; but she never spoke to them, so she did not know for certain. She did not speak to anyone. Increasingly, she felt as if she had receded and other people occupied a stage in front of her. As a member of the audience it did not seem appropriate to interrupt the performance of their lives. In any event, she had nothing to say, not of any value or importance, and she had lost the ability to make talk smaller than herself long ago. Diagonally opposite her, also in a corner, sat a native man, working away at some wood in his hands with a knife. It was a long, thin piece, perfectly straight, he turned it over and over, smoothing away the slough. He must have sensed her watching, because he looked up from his task and smiled. Joanna averted her gaze immediately.

Her food arrived along with an overweight Austrian, Gerald, who introduced himself with a hard G. He had been traveling in South America for two and a half months and could “Recommend Machu Picchu”, naturally enough, but warned against Mexico City, “very violent,” he confirmed with a vigorous shake of his head, “and Columbia”. The waiter shuffled into view. “Two beers,” said Gerald, motioning one for Joanna. She attempted to decline, but he apparently did not hear her.

“And you?”
Joanna found her polite smile, “Research”. She regretted the lie as soon as it was out of her mouth, “I'm a social anthropologist”.
“Really?”
“Yes, really.”
“What is a social anthropologist?”
Joanna knew her face was reddening, “We study the dynamics of cultural identity”.
“And what have you discovered in old Quito?”
“That the natives, as opposed to those with Spanish blood, have a tribal coherence. They maintain this via various rituals, some historically specific and others reactively determined.”
“Like screwing down by the lakeside?”
Joanna blushed furiously.
Gerald leant back in his chair, “I saw you the other night, hiding in the bushes”.
“It's all part of my research,” she countered.
“How do you say it? 'Nice work if you can get it', eh?”
Joanna looked at the table, missing Gerald's wink. He satisfied himself with her fidgeting embarrassment and a long slug of beer.

“Can I?” The heavily accented question rescued Joanna from further fumblings with her napkin. Gerald pushed a chair out with his booted foot, a slight sneer playing around his lips. The native, who had previously been sitting in the corner, assembled his tools on the table and took advantage of the seat. “Hernando,” he said, holding out his hand.
“Gerald,” came the Austrian's sulky reply, quickly followed by “we don't want to buy anything”.
“Perdon?”
“No deseamos comprar cualquier cosa.”
“What did you say?” Joanna asked.
“I said we don't want to buy anything. These natives are always trying to sell to tourists. He has his eye on you and thinks you're an easy target.”
Joanna shifted uncomfortably. “What are you making?”
Hernando shrugged to indicate he did not understand her question. She pointed at the carved wood on the table. He picked it up and put it to his lips.
“It's a traditional flute,” Gerald cut in, “they only cost a few centavos”.
“I thought you said we weren't buying anything.”
“I can still comment on the value.”
“But if I paid a hundred dollars for it, that would be the value,” Joanna flushed and flared in equal measure.
“You like the natives?” Gerald teased.
“I like them well enough not to insult them.”
He raised his eyebrows in response, turned to Hernando and spoke quickly. Hernando did not laugh, instead he looked at Joanna with a quizzical expression.

After a few minutes of strained silence Gerald rose, tucked his hands in his pockets and strode out of the restaurant. Hernando smiled and then called for the waiter, who duly arrived with two small glasses filled with a viscous liquid. At first Joanna sipped. “No,” Hernando held up his hand to halt her caution, “this,” and he tipped his head back to down the drink in one, before reaching for a jug of water clinking with ice. She copied his action, only to find herself gasping and spluttering. He laughed. Once she had caught her breath she laughed too, as the tears ran down her face and her lungs struggled to inflate.

“Yo no hablo Espanol,” Joanna said, apologetically, by way of explanation.
“Yo no hablo Ingles.”
“Donde esta la iglesia?”
Hernando smiled. “I will hamburger”.
“Je m'appelle Joanna.”
“Que?”
She placed her palm over her chest and was surprised to feel her own breasts rising and falling in quick succession. “Joanna.”
“Si.”
She removed her hand. Hernando’s gaze lingered.

He returned to his work, carving, scraping and honing. The pale wood contrasted with his dark fingers. Many years ago, when Joanna's love had been warm and intuitive, she went to Florence with Paul. They stood, hand in hand, admiring Michelangelo's 'Prisoners'. “It's as if the man has always been in the stone, waiting to come out, for someone to release him.”
“Yes dear,” Paul said, “that's the point of the title”.
“But I can see it, I can believe it.”
Now Joanna watched Hernando’s flute emerge from the wood, quietly, intently.

He passed the incomplete instrument to her. It was warm, having absorbed the heat of his body. Hesitantly, she took it and examined where it had been cut. There were small areas of flattened knap, and larger areas of straight, smooth surfaces. He offered her his knife, holding the blade in his palm so that she could grip the handle. “Oh no, no,” she said.
“Si, you have,” his fingers closed around her knuckles firmly, forcing her to accept his invitation. “like how”. Underneath him she moved, stiffly at first, her body tense and uncommunicative. He leant into her, pressing his chest lightly against her arm. A small trickle of sweat ran down her back, curved over the vase of her spine and disappeared into her underwear.

“Loving admits not merely of one, but of three opposites. In addition to the antithesis 'loving-hating', there is the other one of 'loving-being-loved'; and in addition to these, loving and hating taken together are the opposite of the condition of unconcern or indifference …”

In her room Joanna froze at the sink. Her hair, usually so neat and ordered, hung about her face and neck like wild reeds washed about in a torrential river. It was hot, so damn hot, and her heart was beating up out of her chest and into her throat. She clung to the porcelain, ashen, grey lipped, a shocking sheen of sweat covering her features. It would pass. She knew it would pass. B R E A T H E. In, beautiful, clean, refreshing air. Out, thick, slimy, khaki sludge. And again. She made a cup out of her hands to splash water onto her face. She stood, small rivulets ran down her neck and over her breasts. Maybe she should brush her teeth. Scrub, scrubscrubscrubscrub. Her tongue felt like rubber, flopping about inside her mouth, threatening to suffocate her.

“Here we have a right to interpolate a previous phase which has transformed the love into hate …”

Joanna vomited

“Hate, as a relation to objects, is older than love …”

A sharp knock at her door yanked Joanna back into her body. She clapped her hands to her mouth, sucking down the noise she had already made while trying to ensure no others escaped. Perhaps if she were quiet whoever it was would go away. A shuffle. Another knock. Hernando’s voice drifted through the wood. “Hello?”
“One moment please,” Joanna, still faintingly dizzy, ran around picking her scattered clothes up off the floor, “un momento,” she threw three pairs of shoes into a corner, “ok, ok”. In the mirror she saw that she was still pale and a line a sweat above her top lip made her look like she had a moustache; she wiped it away quickly, smoothed down her hair and pinched some colour back into her cheeks.

Hernando lazed against the door frame, a hat hanging from his left hand, a bottle clutched in his right. Joanna shook her head more vehemently than she intended, causing the strap of her sun-dress to fall from her shoulder. Instinctively she made a grab to prevent any revelations. Too late. She had exposed herself.

“Usted es muy bonita.”
“And you are …”
“Here,” he said, holding up the bottle.
“Yes, here. Why?”
It was Hernando’s turn to shake his head, but he accompanied this action with shoulder shrugging.”
“Why are you here?” Joanna's voice had risen an octave.
“Que?”
She pointed at the floor and said “Here,” in very deliberate tones. When she was young there had been a dog, Mabel, if you pointed at the floor and said 'Here' the animal would instantly obey. It occurred to Joanna that she didn't know what she wanted Hernando to do, or what she wanted to do herself. “Here,” she repeated mechanically, as tears started to well up. “No, not here. I can't … This isn't … We don't even speak the same language.”
Hernando reached into his jacket pocket and drew out a perfectly rolled joint. “Marijuana?”
“Yes, marijuana. In Spanish it's marijuana?”
“Si, marijuana,” he said it differently, the ju coming from the back of his throat rather than his lips, but it was the same word, in both languages.

Joanna held the door open wider and smiled. As he passed her she noticed the flute poking out of his marijuana pocket. She padded along behind him, pausing to kick the Freud under the bed.