Free The House in Smyrna by Tatiana Salem Levy

I masturbated thinking about you with another woman. For heaven’s sake, am I going mad?
    We weren’t in the hospital anymore, but in a hotel in the city of Baltimore, in the United States. I thought you were still asleep and opened the curtain only a crack, so as not to wake you. Outside, the city glimmered. You heard me moving about the room and asked if I was up. Yes, it’s almost nine o’clock, I said, glancing at the clock on the nightstand. Your eyes were closed. I’m going to open the curtains, I said. It’s a beautiful day out. You didn’t say a thing, and it occurred to me that I was the one who shouldn’t have said anything. I saw you opening your eyes and then closing them, opening them again, closing them again. That was when it dawned on me that maybe it made no difference, and I realised that your open eyes didn’t linger on anything. They were like two lost marbles, like an instrument that you didn’t know how to use. I saw it, and I didn’t say anything. I watched you and noticed that as I looked at you, you didn’t look at me. We’d never look into each other’s eyes again. Like in a film in fast motion, I began to imagine everything that you’d never see again: the sun outside; the cities of the world, with people walking, bumping into one another, hurrying past, or just strolling along; the dogs; the birds. You’d never again see Rio de Janeiro, Ipanema, Copacabana, the beach, the sunset, the moon rising over the ocean, the trees. You’d never again watch films; you’d never read another book. And when my hair grew long or when I cut it off, or when I bought new clothes, or put on weight, or got pregnant, or grew old, you wouldn’t see it. You wouldn’t see a thing. Ever again.
    Mother? I blurted out, almost shouting, as if calling for help. Mother? I said, almost crying, almost collapsing, as if hearing you speak might stop me.
    Yes? you said, without any enthusiasm in your voice.
    I think I’m going to get something to eat, a sandwich or some yoghurt. What would you like?
    Anything, you said. I’m not hungry.
    Okay, maybe I’ll buy some fruit, a banana or an apple, I said as I got dressed, my eyes full of tears. I just wanted to get out of the room so I could cry without you hearing me. And I did, from the hotel corridor until the moment I returned with two sandwiches and a banana. When I came back, you were still lying in bed, in the same position, opening and closing your eyes. I left the paper bag on the table next to the television and lay down next to you. We didn’t touch the food.
    Mother? I said, this time in a steady voice, as if my tears had carried away my fear.
    What? you said, eyes wide open, unblinking.
    You can’t see anything anymore, can you?
    You didn’t answer, just shut your eyes, and it was your mouth that cried, your downturned lips. Then I hugged you tightly, very tightly, and said: Everything will be okay, you’ll see. I listed all the things you could do without seeing: there was still lots of music to listen to; I’d read you stories, newspapers, novels, poetry; we could talk a lot, eat yummy things, and drink good wines; you could dictate to me everything that you wanted to write; you could imagine all the films that you wouldn’t see, because in your head you could still see lots and lots, you could still see whatever you wanted. Lying there like that, you listening in silence as I enumerated all the things you could do, we invented a world for ourselves for the last time, we created the world we would live in for the last time. We still didn’t know that in two weeks it would all be gone, that in two weeks you wouldn’t be able to see or imagine, or listen to music, or taste good wines, or hug me, or hear the many many stories that I wanted to tell you.
    I had two names on a piece of paper: Raphael and Salomon. The surname was exactly the same as mine.