The Spanish Daughter(35)

I had minimum luck with my own fishing, but at least I caught a couple of small bass. Then came the gory task of washing the fish and cutting them open to remove their insides. I marveled at Martin’s skill, his precision for cutting, his speed. His hands were large, masculine, his fingernails soiled. It was fascinating to watch.

How come women never did amusing things like this? Well, at least I never did. I was too busy working.

I stared at his profile. What would he say if he knew who I was? Would he flirt with me, or be cold and distant? He would probably not use the kind of language that freely flew from his mouth now that he thought I was a man.

For the first time, I missed my long mane. It had been Cristóbal’s weakness and I couldn’t help but wish Martin could see me as a woman, too. Wait, what was I doing? My husband had just died and here I was wondering what another man thought of me.

Martin turned to me abruptly and asked if I’d like to come to his place to try the fish. I stuttered a yes, while I pinched my thigh on Cristóbal’s behalf.

*

Martin’s house was not far from the river, just outside my father’s property. It was a two-story construction with a titian roof. As I walked in, I couldn’t help but stare at the ceiling, speechless. Built in an A-shape, it alternated between thick beams and glass, letting in exorbitant amounts of light. Through the skylight, you could see the forest. It was so beautiful—it reminded me of those cabins in the fairy tales I used to read as a child. The stairs were part wood, part gray stones—sporadically covered in moss, like an old castle. It was a house that played with shapes and styles, a house with the power of making you question if you were inside or out.

I leaned on the kitchen counter while Martin chopped pieces of bass, covered them in flour, and sank them in hot oil. We were like two bachelors who’d known each other their entire lives and were completely comfortable with each other. Martin served me a beer called Pilsener while he told me stories about the women he’d had in that very same kitchen. I’d never heard such unrestrained talk before.

“How come there is no Mrs. Sabater?” I asked between blowing on a piece of fish to cool it down and taking cautious bites when I could no longer control my hunger.

“Because I’m not stupid.” He chuckled.

I didn’t get how this was funny or why getting married made you stupid, but I’d heard some of my clients joke about this to each other.

“And the real reason?” I said.

His smile vanished. He removed the rest of the fish from the pan and set it on a plate to cool down.

“I don’t like the way many women treat their husbands,” he said. “I’ve seen many of my friends—brilliant, capable men—being treated like children or like they’re too dumb to know any better. Look at Angélica and Laurent. He can’t make the smallest decisions without her consent. He has absolutely no say in day-to-day activities, much less business decisions, especially now that Don Armand is not around. I remember my mother doing that to my father, too.” He shook his head. “I would hate to lose the ability to come and go as I please, or worse, to lose all confidence in myself.”

I thought of my own relationship with Cristóbal. It was true that I directed the course of our lives in many ways. But I didn’t think of my husband as stupid—I just thought he didn’t care about the minute details of our lives, like the way we decorated our apartment or what friends we should invite for dinner, so I ended up making those decisions myself. Had he been unsatisfied with our arrangement? I recalled his words during our last quarrel.

I’m already doing what you wanted. Am I not?

“You make women sound like monsters,” I told Martin.

“Oh, no. I love women. I just don’t want one to run my life.”

“But do you realize that most women never have had the freedoms you enjoy? They constantly have to explain their behaviors to their parents or to their husbands, and restrain their actions in a society that always judges them.”

“Well, there are societal rules and laws for everybody. Just because I’m a man it doesn’t mean I can kill someone. But perhaps you’re right in that outside the home, women must show more restraint than men.”

“That is a fact. Or can you imagine a woman paying a man to fornicate?”

He let out a boisterous laugh.

“I’d volunteer if they needed someone.”

“I don’t doubt it.” I took a sip of beer. It was so bitter. How could people drink this on purpose? “So instead of running the risk of having a woman rule your life, you use all others?”

“You mean, the prostitutes?”

What else?

“It’s a fair exchange,” he said. “They need the money and I need their services. Or do you think I should be giving away money to every woman I meet just because they need it? Look, it’s a rotten system, but I didn’t create it and I don’t know how to fix it. It’s unfortunate that some women have to sell their bodies to survive, but life is not always pretty or clean. We’re imperfect creatures. We’re messy, we’re flawed, we don’t always have answers. I know I don’t.”

“And here I thought you were nursing a broken heart.”

He turned around and grabbed a plate from an overhead cabinet.

“Enough of this dull talk,” he said. “Let’s eat.”