SoMa Literary Review - The Affaire

The Affaire

By Camincha

Alba doesn’t remember how it happened that she found herself in the next room listening, listening, enjoying it. Yes. She enjoyed it. OH! it became the basis for her sexual life. She knew there and forever that sex between two that cared for each other, was to enjoy, to celebrate, to relish: Ah! the sweet moans. The whispered words. The unusual sounds. Wilfredo coaxing. Her mother resisting. Then giving in, moaning, Oh, ah, ahhhhhhh, ahhhhhhhhh. Then a litany of unintelligible, sultry murmurs. Low, caressing laughter of triumph, Wilfredo’s.

Alba took to saying it in her head, Oh, ah, ahhhhhhh, ahhhhhhh, when things got specially bad. As if those sounds held a promise to her of good things to come. And when things were unusually good, to celebrate them. She was only thirteen, so maybe when she had a boyfriend? No. No. Probably later on when she got married, Oh, ah, ahhhhhhh, ahhhhhhhhh.

The affaire, of which Alba’s mother was the heroine was like an exotic flower in the middle of a refugee’s makeshift camp, which was their reality since they had rented their home and downsized in the mistaken believe it would, plus her mother’s salary as teacher, be enough to live stress free. But their tenants defaulting on the rent payments were making their lives very difficult. Oh, ah, ahhhhhhh, ahhhhhhh.

The affaire brought them a respite. And for being so unexpected was talked about, commented by all. Actually became an earth shaken interlude in all their lives. Lives of living day to day. Lives of sacrifice. Lives of dreams deferred. Oh, ah, ahhhhhhh, ahhhhhhhhh.

Wilfredo Vasquez, had made Captain in record time. Was respected by his subordinates and liked by his superiors. He was married with two small daughters. Everyone looked forward to a brilliant carrier for him. Wilfredo and Alba’s mother had met when the Captain and his brother were cadets at the Military Academy in Chorrillos and not having family in Lima as they were from Arequipa, about a thousand miles south east, would spend their holidays at the house of their parent’s childhood friend, Alba’s father, who also came from Arequipa. Then they lost sight of each other as Alba’s mother at the time was a woman with a demanding husband, a home, a small daughter. And Wilfredo Vasquez had a career in the military to devote himself to. Oh, ah, ahhhhhhh, ahhhhhhh.

So this one day Alba’s mother was at Plaza San Martin in Lima waiting for the Expreso to Miraflores when someone waving and smiling, called to her. She was surprised. Didn’t recognized the man. Before she had a chance to think about it, he was at her side. For the first time that day she noticed what a lovely day it was, sunny. The sun was actually shining in a lovely blue sky. Oh, ah, ahhhhhhh, ahhhhhhh.

When Alba first heard of it her mother was all smiles and giggles as she related the incident. They were in the kitchen, Alba’s mother, La Gringa Mae and Jessie. Eileen was in––what with the merging of two households––the day-time-dinning- room, night-time-bedroom within hearing distance as the warm weather allowed the doors to be wide opened. So everyone found out about it that day. Oh, ah, ahhhhhhh, ahhhhhhh.

Alba’s mother had been sooooo surprised. And she told them who, he was. How happy they were to find each other. Well, maybe she didn’t say it like that. Didn’t have to. She was laughing, giggling, her eyes shone, her cheeks were magenta in her café latte skin, she looked years younger, not the thirty-five she was that weigh so heavy on her shoulders, but the flirty young girl she had never been. But could have been, if she hadn’t inherited tuberculosis from her mother. If she hadn’t become an orphan at eight. If she hadn’t been sent to be brought up at a boarding school ran by repressed, perennially, psychologically constipated, well meaning, God fearing nuns. If she hadn’t been taken in by the aunt, not for love but a sense of duty. If she hadn’t cross paths with Alba’s father, the man she made rich, by working empty handed the government contracts he acquired while he lived a life of luxury, whispering sweet nothings to the high society beauties that took his fancy. Spending the money she earned with her sweat, her pains, her tears. Until he finally just disappeared from their lives. Oh, ah, ahhhhhhh, ahhhhhhh.

So Alba’s mother had not had tenderness, caresses, hugs and kisses, instead she had been tempered, braced for, to be hard working, to be a fighter, to take care of herself. She had been taught how to make the most beautiful embroidery sketches, knitting, crocheting, lace, sewing patterns, dress designing. The most elegant, perfect handwriting and calligraphy. Also had a couple of years training as a nurse in which she had excelled, and gave her first hand knowledge of hygiene and nutrition. All highly appreciated skills. That is who she was at that moment, Alba’s mother. A well-trained woman of her time about to be betrayed by life once again. Petite, brunette, sad brown eyes that in amusing, tender moments would shine like jewels. However, as well, a woman starving for affection, for masculine attention, anxious to feel in love, to be wanted as a woman. Oh, ah, ahhhhhhh, ahhhhhhh.

She was ready indeed and it should have come to pass, her romance with Wilfredo. As a great chapter in her life. An exhilarating memory to hold on to, to relive in cold, winter evenings. However through her own doing, Alba’s mother turned it into a tragedy that ended with her own death. Oh, ah, ahhhhhhh, ahhhhhhh.

WILFREDO AND ALBA’S mother’s rendezvous took place at first, far from her house, in surrounding cities, in out of the way, open air cafés, restaurants at the edge of the beach, being as they were experiencing a deliciously hot summer. She will then come home with a smile on her lips. Eyes shining like jewels. Alba had seldom seen that before. Maybe as a casual spark that died as soon as it appeared. Not now. It was constant. She was animated and exuded an energy that made people, specially men, do double takes, smile at her for no reason. Alba met Wilfredo. And remembers his dark eyes. His dark hair. And how strange to have him in the tiny space, the two rooms they rented from La Gringa Mae. Oh, ah, ahhhhhhh, ahhhhhhh.

And she remembers that her mother felt the need to make him a gift and started to knit a burgundy cardigan for the man she had fallen totally, fully irremediably in love with. She knitted and as she knitted it was like something mythical, magical went into each stitch. As if each movement of her fingers, her hands, her arms, her eyes were expressing the essence of what was coming up from the bottom of her being, her soul. How much in love she was. Oh, ah, ahhhhhhh, ahhhhhhh.

The cardigan had an intricate pattern. The front had a wide, tight braid on each side and there were four tight braids in the back. And as everything that came from her hands, it was exquisite. The buttons, she had them custom made, leather covered, to give it a masculine look and died, to match the color of the wool she was using. Oh, ah, ahhhhhhh, ahhhhhhh.

Wilfredo knew she was knitting it and there must have been something said because Alba remembers some comments about it floating in the air. Next she knew the cardigan was finished. Next Alba’s mother laughing related that he was not wearing it because it was so beautiful. Next, that it was because he didn’t want to wear it out. Oh, ah, ahhhhhhh, ahhhhhhh.

THEN SUDDENLY AS it seems the Gods and Goddesses like to do to humans it all disappeared. Evaporated. The way the heavy morning garüa evaporated with the mid morning sun. The out of the way cafés and restaurants were just a memory that no one mentioned, along with the never worn cardigan. One day Wilfredo was also gone. A soldier had come to their house and delivered a message to Alba who was the only one home at the time: The Captain has been reassigned to the Amazonía. He left last week. He paused. He looked Alba in the eyes for the first time and as if offering an explanation that would make it all clear added, The Captain left last Tuesday. Then, with his right hand stiffly touched the side of his head in a military salute, and left. Oh, ah, ahhhhhhh, ahhhhhhh.

Alba’s mother tried to find out where, was he? The garrison’s location? Close to what city? A P.O Box? Every, everyone she talked, every government office she entered turned into a dead end. No one could give her any information. No one knew anything. Finally one officer who had had to repeat himself too many times surprised her: the Colonel will see you. Alba’s mother blushed with anticipation entering this new office. Hope welled in her chest. The door closed behind her. The woman that emerged a few minutes later had lost all hope. The Colonel in his most respectful, but stern manner told her that it was no use, Captain Vasquez could not be reached. Seeing the anguish in her eyes, he had added kindly but in a voice full of authority, just to put an end to the moment, It is a matter of Top Security. Oh, ah, ahhhhhhh, ahhhhhhh.

To Alba the tragedy that unfolded was a painful mystery. Like sitting in the dark in a theater watching a movie in which her mother was the principal character and the way the story went she was bent on destroying herself and Alba and their world. Alba watch the screen, the acting. Oh, ah, ahhhhhhh, ahhhhhhh.

Alba’s mother couldn’t believe he was gone. She never said but it became clear that she feared would never see Wilfredo again. In her moments of anguished crying and recriminations she also believed that someone had conspired to indispose her with Wilfredo. She believed someone had gone to him with malicious remarks, conspired against her. Oh, ah, ahhhhhhh, ahhhhhhh.

Her mother sat at the table not eating. Drinking tea. Coffee when they could afford it. Alba just watched her from across the room. Alba remembers that she never spoke, for days and days. She just cried. And cried. They became characters in a silent movie. Alba kept saying in her head, Oh, ah, ahhhhhhh, ahhhhhhh.

The tuberculosis dormant in Alba’s mother took over and spread through out her body, helped, pushed along, by the woman who had given herself to despair. And the illness spread silently, efficiently, and systematically devoured her. There is good reason why tuberculosis was then known as consumption because that is exactly what it did. It consumed her. It dried her up. Aided by the woman’s inertia, the deep depression she was in, the tuberculosis dried her up. She lost weight at a gigantic pace. Her skin became taught against her bones, her eyes sunk in their sockets, her hair fell off her head by handfuls. Her clothes hanged on her like discarded rags. Soon she was too weak to walk and had to stay in bed. Their relatives from the great aunt’s house came to their aid. Faithful and kind willing as ever to help. They brought their smiles, their pity, their prayers, their curious looks. Oh, ah, ahhhhhhh, ahhhhhhh.

Alba’s mother in a brief lucid moment had told Alba: Go see your great-aunt. Years before there had been an earthquake. It left thousands homeless, specially in the city of Lima, Barranco and Chorrillos, not so much in Miraflores. But the city of Lima where their tía lived had been left in ruins. The great-aunt and her two sons were homeless. Alba’s mother in the tradition of The Family had given them unconditional shelter. The Family that always took care of their own. They took in orphans. They nursed the sick. Fed the unemployed. Buried the dead. Now, they came for Alba and Alba’s mother. They spoon fed her. Oh, ah, ahhhhhhh, ahhhhhhh.

She did perked up with all the attention. Became alert again. But it didn’t last. Her body was exhausted. It was too late. Her soul was not in it. She declined rapidly. If she talked at all it was to instruct her daughter how she should behave when she went to live at her great-aunt’s house. The same one that had once given a home to Alba’s mother. Oh, ah, ahhhhhhh, ahhhhhhhh.

Also by Camincha on SoMa Literary Review:

Chemo, Mi Madre, From the Mouths of Babes, At Night, Warmbodies: Yolanda, Man in the Shadows, Paradise Is Where You Find It, Daydreams, I Don't Write Anymore, What You Don’t Know Can Hurt You, Blue Eyes, I Love This Dress, Blank Pages, Warmbodies, Suburbia, Hope and Justice, The Sorcerer & Pussy cat, pussy cat

Camincha is originally from Miraflores, Lima, Perú. Today she lives in Pacifica and is the author of the novella As Time Goes By.