The winter sheets drawer
In my house the winter sheets drawer is the drawer for things that have no place. That's where the old batteries go, the blind remotes that no longer work, the warranty for the water heater and a pile of folded plastic bags that Irene has been saving since we got married, just in case.
That Saturday I was looking for the small Phillips screwdriver. I needed it for the dishwasher, which has been making a wasp-like noise for three weeks and was missing a screw from the rack. I opened the drawer, pushed the flannel sheets aside and there it was: a blue notebook, hard covers, with an elastic band and worn corners. One of those you buy to write important things in and then use for anything.
I opened it standing up, with my hands greasy, holding it with two fingers.
It was my wife's handwriting.
Irene writes like a diligent little girl: round, slanted, with the dots on the i's very marked. I'd recognize it even on a shopping list. And that was no shopping list.
I'm in the shower. He comes in without warning, already naked, and gets in behind me. He doesn't say anything. He moves my wet hair off my neck and bites me, right where my skin gets goosebumps. His hand goes down my belly slowly, as if he had all morning, and when it reaches my pubis he stops. He stops and waits. I open my legs a little, just enough, and he notices and puts his fingers in. He masturbates me standing under the water, with his other hand on my throat, and I have to brace both palms on the tile because my legs won't hold me anymore.
I remember that I stood in the hallway, with the notebook in one hand and the screwdriver in the other, and that I said out loud:
—But what are you telling me.
I turned the page. And another. And another.
Forty-three pages written. I counted them later, sitting on the toilet with the door closed, which is the only place in that house where a man can read in peace. Forty-three pages and a last one blank, waiting.
And in all of them, in all of them, there was a guy she called M.
Plumber's espionage
I met Irene when I was twenty-nine, at the bar of a pub where she was having a beer with her hands still covered in clay from the workshop. Twelve years later we have two kids, a mortgage, an old dog and a double bed in which lately we sleep with our backs turned, each on our own shore, like two countries that don't speak to each other.
And suddenly there it was: my wife writing that a certain M ate her out on the workshop table.
The first thing I thought, with all the bad blood in the world, was: Mateo.
Mateo was a boyfriend from university. I know because once, at a dinner with friends, someone brought up the subject of first times and she said "my first boyfriend was called Mateo" and I held on to that, the way you hold on to stones thrown at you. A two-syllable name, with a big M. A ceramicist, on top of that. One of those who really gets dirty.
So M was Mateo. And my wife was sleeping with Mateo every night inside a blue notebook and hadn't told me anything.
I didn't confess. That's my flaw: I'd rather find out on my own than ask and look like an idiot. So I set up a plumber's espionage plan, which consists of blundering methodically.
I started with the first scene. The shower one.
I read it seven times until I learned it, and then I noticed a detail: in the notebook, Irene is in the shower and he comes in "already naked." He doesn't come in wearing a bathrobe or boxers. He comes in naked, with wet hair, and bites her neck. And she braces her palms on the tile. And he fingers her standing, from behind.
On Tuesday morning I got up before her. I went into the bathroom, undressed and got in the shower. I turned on the tap and waited standing under the water, my heart like a blender, going over the gestures.
Two minutes later she came in.
—What are you doing in here at this hour?
—Showering. —Great, Diego. Pure eloquence.
She got in next to me, on her side, and started soaping her hair as if nothing. And I, instead of doing what I had to do, just stared at her. She had foam on the back of her neck and the water ran down her back outlining her shoulder blades. At thirty-nine my wife has hips that don't appear in magazines and a way of tilting her head under the tap that has kept me awake more times than she thinks.
—Is something wrong? —she said.
And then I did it. I moved her wet hair off her neck, leaned in and bit her. Right there, on the goosebump spot.
I felt her go still. Really still, with her hands in the air, foam falling from her shoulder. And I knew I'd hit the mark in a way that made me dizzy.
I moved my hand down her belly. Slowly, as written. When I reached her pubis I stopped and waited, and she opened her legs a little, just enough, and I put my fingers in and found her hot and slippery in a way that had nothing to do with the water.
—Fuck —she said, her voice hoarse.
I put my other hand on her throat, as in the notebook. And she braced both palms on the tile. Both palms. Just like that.
I masturbated her standing under the water, with my thumb on her clit and my fingers inside, and she started pushing back against my hand with her hips, her forehead against the tile, and within seconds she came with a long, surprised moan, one of those that escape before you have time to decide whether you want to let them out.
She stayed leaning for a moment. Then she turned, looked at me with her hair stuck to her face and said:
—Can I know what's gotten into you?
—Nothing. That I love you a lot.
And there I stayed, with the feeling of having done a fine job and the suspicion, from the very first day, that my wife knew much more than I did.
The workshop
The second scene took place in the workshop. On Thursdays Irene stays until eleven shaping her things, because the kiln has to be watched and because, according to her, at night the clay gives in more.
In the notebook, M finds her bent over the wheel, her arms covered in clay up to the elbow, and lifts her dress from behind.
On Thursday I showed up at the workshop with the excuse of the van. I said I'd had a client meeting nearby and it had gotten late, and I sat on the stool in the corner with a beer, watching her work. She was wearing a gray cotton dress, one of those you wear to get dirty, and she had a mud stain on the back of her neck.
I waited until she was bent over. She bent over. And I got up.
—Diego, you're going to distract me.
I didn't answer. I put my hand on her back and pulled her dress up to her waist, and she went still with her hands around the clay that was spinning.
—And this? —she said.
—Nothing. Keep going.
I pulled her panties down to her knees with one hand and with the other put my fingers in her mouth. She sucked them without asking, her cheeks red, and then I moved them down her belly, still wet, and passed them over her cunt. She had clay up to her wrists and couldn't touch me, so she just opened her legs wider and rested her cheek on the wheel table, her eyes closed.
I fucked her like that, standing, with the dress bunched at her waist and my fingertips stained with mud, and with every thrust a gray print was left on her hip. She started saying things she never says, things you write and don't speak, and the wheel kept spinning beside her with a bee-like hum and the pot turning into a long strip.
—Slower —she said—. I'm going to come and I want it to last.
And I, who had spent twelve years doing things at a plumber's pace, did something I'd never done in my life: I went slow. Really slow. Extremely slow, until she started begging and moving her hips in circles, with the mud sliding off her arms and falling in drips onto the table.
When she came, the pot broke. It fell apart in her hands, entirely, and she couldn't have cared less: she stayed panting over the wheel with the clay dripping and then turned, looked at me from the floor and said:
—You've read something.
Homework
—No.
—Diego.
—I haven't.
She wiped her hands on the apron, pulled her dress down and sat on the stool with a patience that made me nervous. Then she opened the tool drawer, took out the blue notebook and put it on the table, between the two of us.
—Have you read it all or are you going bit by bit?
—All of it.
—And what did you think?
I stared at the notebook. There's my problem: that at forty-one I still can't say important things without them coming out all forced.
—Well, I thought there's a certain Mateo here who's having a hell of a good time.
She stayed with her mouth open for a second. Then she burst out laughing. She laughed so much she had to rest her forehead on the table, and I started to feel heat rising to my face.
—Diego. Honey. Do you know what your name is?
—Diego.
—Diego Mateo. Your name is Diego Mateo Ruiz. It's on your ID. We put it on the wedding invitations. Your mother calls you Mateo when she's angry with you.
I was left like a fool. My mother calls me Mateo when she's angry with me. Of course she does. And I, who have spent twelve years signing Diego on every document, hadn't made the connection in three days.
—And why don't you write Diego?
—Because I write with the M and it makes me happy. —She shrugged—. Because the M is yours and nobody else knows it.
And then came the part I wasn't expecting.
—I've been writing this for two years, Diego. Two years. The last page has been blank since the first day.
—And what are you waiting for on the last page?
—For you to write it. —She looked me straight in the eye—. And now you're going to do your homework.
—My homework?
—You read the notebook in secret, you set up a little espionage act and on top of that you thought you had a rival. Well, now you write. A scene. Whatever comes out. And when you have it, you give it to me and we do it. Without talking. Without saying "do you like it?". Without anything.
—I don't know how to write.
—I didn't know how to install a dishwasher and I learned.
The notebook out loud
I spent three days with the blue notebook in the van, between the box of keys and the invoice book, not daring. On Friday night the kids went to sleep at my sister's house and I got the coward's panic: the one where you think you've come up with something huge and you're going to ruin it.
Irene appeared in the living room with the notebook in her hand and two glasses of wine.
—Tonight you don't write. Tonight we read.
—We read?
—You read what I've written. I read what you've written. —And when she saw my face—: You haven't written anything, right?
—I've been busy.
She sat on the sofa, put on her glasses and opened the notebook to page twelve. I sat on the arm of the sofa with my glass, and she started reading out loud.
I've told him to sit on the workshop chair and not move. He sat down. I got on my knees between his legs and unbuttoned his pants very slowly, looking him in the eye, and he lifted his hips to help me because he can't stand it.
—Your turn —she said, and handed me the notebook open to another page.
I read. My voice came out strange, smoker-like, and by the third line my mouth was dry. I read a whole scene, one in which M had her hands tied to the headboard with a tie and ran his tongue over her whole body except where she wanted it, and as I read I realized Irene had been moving closer along the sofa and was watching my mouth.
—Another —she said when I finished—. You didn't read that one well.
—What do you mean I didn't?
—That you read it in a hurry. Read it again, but slower. And with your voice, not mine.
I read it again. Slower. And this time I didn't read: I told. I told what the guy in the notebook did to her —which was me, damn it, it was me— and when I reached the end she had her hand inside my pants and was squeezing my thigh with the other.
—Now me —she said—. And you shut up.
She read page twenty-eight staring at me, hardly ever lowering her eyes to the paper, because she knew it by heart. And what she read was her on her knees in the workshop, with his hands in her hair, saying don't stop. And I got up from the arm of the sofa, grabbed her by the waist and laid her on her back, and took off her glasses before they could fall.
I took them off and set them carefully on the table, and then I pulled up her shirt and kissed her belly, and she kept reading out loud with the notebook resting on her chest, and with every sentence I went a centimeter lower and read her body with my mouth until the clever thing reached a paragraph that said and he goes down on me and she went quiet to look at me.
I went down on her slowly, with my hands on her hips, while she tried to keep reading and got the words wrong. Then I came up, put my hand on her throat —as in the notebook, as in the shower— and fucked her without warning, and she dropped the notebook and grabbed my back with both hands.
—Like that —she said—. Like that, fuck.
We fucked on the sofa with the notebook lying open face down on the rug and the glasses of wine untouched, and when she came she dug her heels into my kidneys and told me in my ear what page thirty-one said, which was a very dirty and very short thing, and I came with her saying it to me.
Afterward we lay there, sweaty and twisted, staring at the ceiling.
—Diego.
—What?
—Tomorrow you write.
The last page
I wrote it on a Tuesday afternoon in the van, parked in front of a building on Horno Street, with the invoice pen and the door open. It took me two and a half hours and a couple of missed calls. I didn't get poetic. I put down what there was.
I wrote that I get home and she's in the kitchen, with her back to me, with the radio on. That she doesn't know I've arrived. That I lift her hair, kiss her neck and tell her in her ear not to turn around. That I pull down her tracksuit pants and leave her like that, half naked and leaning on the counter, with the radio in the background. That I put two fingers in her and then fuck her standing, with one hand on her hip and the other on the tap. That she holds back the urge to turn around until she can't take it anymore. And that when she turns around, I sit her on the counter, open her legs and go down on her until she drops the glass.
I wrote it all with spelling mistakes. I didn't have time to correct them.
On Wednesday afternoon, at a quarter past seven, I walked into the house, left the keys in the bowl, went to the kitchen and there she was: with her back to me, with the radio on, in the gray tracksuit and a T-shirt from some concert in the nineties.
I didn't say hello. I lifted her hair, kissed her neck and said in her ear:
—Don't turn around.
She went still, with the slotted spoon in the air. I yanked her tracksuit pants down to her ankles and put my hand on the back of her neck so she'd lean over the counter.
—Diego, what...?
—No talking.
I put two fingers in her and found her already wet, which is the advantage of having a woman who gets going in the afternoons, and she grabbed the edge of the counter with both hands. I fucked her standing, with my hand on her hip, and the radio kept on with the seven o'clock news, and a nervous laugh escaped her that turned into something else.
—The stew —she said.
—Don't talk.
I moved my hand down to her clit and worked it with my thumb while I fucked her slowly, and she started pushing back with her hips and muttering curses, and the pot on the hob started to sizzle at the exact moment I grabbed her by the hair.
Then she turned. She turned without permission, with her pants at her ankles, and looked me in the face and said:
—I've read it. And now do it all.
I sat her on the counter, opened her legs and knelt on the kitchen floor. I pulled down her panties with my teeth, because I felt like it, and went down on her with a flat tongue and then in circles, with two fingers inside, and she leaned back against the wall and grabbed my head with both hands. Beside her the pot sizzled. In the hallway, the dog poked his head in and went away again, used to these things.
She came with a hoarse moan and her legs trembling against my shoulders, and in the last spasm she reached out her hand and knocked over the glass of milk, which shattered on the floor.
—Oh, sorry —she said.
—It doesn't matter.
—No, it does matter, there's glass.
And there, with her cunt still in the air and the milk running down the cupboard door, my wife got down off the counter and said:
—Do you know the best part of all this?
—What?
—That you've had a notebook with a blank page for two years and it didn't occur to you to look.
—Two years?
—Two years, Diego. —She carefully picked up a piece of glass and threw it in the bin—. I left it in the winter sheets drawer, which is the place you never get to. And then I left it on the nightstand. And then in your van bag. And nothing. No notice.
—I didn't know I was supposed to look.
—That's why I left it blank. —She pulled up her pants and looked at me from the other side of the kitchen—. Because one thing is for you to read and another is for you to write. And until today you hadn't written so much as the shopping list.
Page fifty-seven
We bought another notebook. Blue too, but smaller, one of those that fit in a work pants pocket. We bought it together at the corner stationery shop, and the girl who served us must have thought we were a bit off our heads, because we spent ten minutes arguing about whether it was better with an elastic band or spiral-bound.
We wrote the rules on a napkin and stuck it to the fridge, between the school calendar and a photo from my cousin's wedding:
- You write what you want to do.
- It's read out loud or it's not read, but it's read.
- What's written is done. Unless force majeure.
- Nobody laughs at the spelling mistakes.
- Whoever doesn't write, does the dishes.
Now we both write. She still puts M in hers, and I've started putting I, and sometimes we put both letters together and then we crack up. The little notebook stays in my work pants pocket and in her apron pocket, and some days I find it in the van with a new page and I have to sit on the curb to read it.
There are scenes that go wrong. Once I wrote one with a stepladder that ended with both of us in the ER with a split eyebrow. Another one she wrote in the car and the tow truck caught us. It doesn't matter. The thing is the house has smelled different for months, and on Thursdays the workshop has its door closed, and the kids already know that if the kitchen door is closed they have to knock before coming in.
Last night, after dinner, Irene sat down next to me on the sofa with the little notebook and put it on my knees.
—It's finished —she said—. Last page.
And it was true: page fifty-seven was blank, and the notebook had its covers open like a mouth waiting.
—It's your turn to start another one —she said—. Or finish it. Whatever you want.
I went to the winter sheets drawer, pushed the flannel aside, took a pen from the battery jar and went back to the sofa. She looked at me without saying anything. You could tell from her face she was dying for me to write something silly so she could laugh.
I rested the notebook on my thigh. I cleared my throat, which is what I do when I get nervous, and I thought about all the pages we'd been through, about the forty-three that had given me a different woman and about the ones to come, and about how the first line of a notebook is always the hardest, and about how at forty-one I had finally learned to reach the drawers that nobody reaches.
I write:
I'll wait for you in the car, in the shopping center parking lot, at six. Get in through the passenger door and don't say anything; I'm not going to say anything either.