Lying in bed, I look at the ceiling of my cell and remember the day I got married. My husband. Our honeymoon, and his entering me. Right when he entered me, I saw it all. A complete scene. There would come children. A house. A kitchen. Work, too, but add onto it everything else. It jolted me. He jolted in me and thrust inside diapers, plates, kitchen, dress, makeup, over and over and on for evermore. Everything within. It cascaded over me like a landslide. A perfectly staged scene, laid out for me since birth. A path with no exit, the same one that’s laid for every woman for having been born thus. My time wrung dry, sand spent from the hourglass, a horse with its eyes blinkered. Keep on going, ask no questions. The only path available to you. I saw it all. Suffocated. I adapted, mounted him. I rode him but there were no reins. The countryside stretched on, could keep stretching on further. But he was still inside me, thrusting. I didn’t have the reins. I had to do something.
I shut down, disconnected from that memory. Then I thought about Fernanda, her husband, and the revolution. We had to turn the world upside down, to put it in reverse. The professor explained that the revolution was absolutely necessary, that nothing would change unless forceful measures were carried out with resolve. It had to happen as soon as possible, no wasting a single minute. I wanted to march, too. I did what I could to reconcile domestic life with revolutionary struggle but there wasn’t the time. The twenty-four hours of the day weren’t enough. Revolution always requires exclusive dedication, an utter and absolute consecration. Having a husband and daughter was holding me back. Impossible to find the right balance. Being a wife was too time consuming. The professor, Fernanda, and I would do great things. He, shining, would be the voice; Fernanda, decisive and strong, would be the arms; and I, focused and visionary, would be the legs. I would go wherever they sent me. When we achieved our main objective and I got to see my daughter again, I would show her the world we’d built. No more hunger, no injustice, no barefoot little children on a patch of sand with no water or schools. Bread on everyone’s table. Everyone everyone everyone. We wanted to transform it all.
I sensed the time had come. That night, my husband stretched out in bed. I felt his lips closing in on my neck, initiating the nightly ritual that would drain me of the energy I needed for the revolution. He rolled on top of me, eager, and pushed apart my legs. When I felt his hands moving toward my underwear, I opened my eyes and glared.
“Don’t touch me.”
Frozen by my voice and my gaze, he left me alone. He avoided my eyes, as if something was scaring him. I took advantage of his hesitation to make my position clear.
“I’ve got everything ready.”
“I didn’t think you’d dare,” he said, turning his back to me.
“That’s exactly your problem, thinking you know me so well.”
“And your daughter means nothing to you?”
“She’s why I’m leaving. I don’t want her growing up in this country the way it is. She’ll understand some day.”
“Marcela, you’re a coward.” His voice shrunk as he said that and even seemed to be trembling. Was it fear?
“You’re the coward, staying here, nice and comfy on the couch with your newspaper and your television and your little bourgeois life.”
“My daughter needs me.”
“The revolution needs me.”
The next morning, I packed my whole life into a suitcase. After my husband left for work, I took my daughter to my mother’s. Everything decided, weighed up, analyzed. There wasn’t enough time for me to be a wife. The time had come for me to surrender myself completely.
I erased all marks of weakness. A piece of dampened cotton to wipe the makeup from my face. It had to be clean and pure for this rebirth. Thorough and unconditional subjection. No accessories, earrings, nothing. Hair cut off. Fernanda helped me with that. She made it match her own; even there, difference would be erased. Equality would begin with us. A simple blouse and blue pants completed my outfit. This was how I would dress to serve the revolution and the party. Utter dedication. Everything for the Guiding Thought. I would be Comrade Marta from that point forward. I joined the party as one joins a religion. My husband left me, expelled from my body. After, to the mountains, to the epicenter. Arm the mind. Train to destroy, get ready to build.
“Mel, you haven’t heard the latest! What happened the other day at the club—God, it was so embarrassing.”
“What did you do?”
Jimena laughs in her seat beside me while we speed through the city of drizzle on the way to Kraken. Madonna is playing on the radio. I open the window of my SUV and the drizzle wets my face, refreshing me. I light a Marlboro. I tell Jimena to spit it out, we’re almost there. Her voice vacillating between uncomfortable and shy, she begins.
“You know how my university is really…well, diverse.”
“Diverse?”
“All kinds of people, you know? Not just like you and me.”
“Ah…”
“So last week I went clubbing with a girl I study with. I have my democratic side, you know that.”
The adjective sounds ridiculous but I bite my tongue to keep from saying so. What are she and I like? Maybe I also give my democratic side a workout taking Jimena to the club because she would never be invited to Ana María’s parties.
Jimena goes on to say that when they got there, the sullen bouncer looked her friend over. He made a grimace of annoyance. A bad sign. Jimena quickly grasped what was coming, and understood that the battle was long lost. She turned a half circle, looking at the night sky. There’s a private function tonight, the bouncer said. Jimena’s friend started waving her arms about and raising her voice in protest. What’s wrong with you? We want to go in! The guy blocked the door with his body, his muscles almost like rocks, a real gym junkie. Jimena started sweating and pleaded, Please, let’s just go. Her friend stood fast. I’m telling you, my friend and I want to go in. The man furrowed his eyebrows and repeated the formula. There’s a private function tonight.
“I wanted to die, Mel. Wanted the earth to open up and swallow me whole. I was so embarrassed…”
Muscles pulled a disgusted face and stretched his arms toward them in a way her friend didn’t like. What the hell is wrong with you? Get your hands off me! Jimena, with the most angelic expression of her repertoire and all the strength she was capable of, took her friend by the arm and steered her away from Kraken. Her friend told her off but knew the battle wasn’t hers, either.
“But what was the problem? Was she wearing slippers or something?”
“Of course not, she was really nicely dressed, but you know…”
“What?”
“Well, she’s really great…It’s just that she’s a little on the swarthy side…”
Jimena doesn’t finish, only manages to laugh. I bite my tongue once more to stop myself from saying how ridiculous her comment sounds, though this doesn’t mean it’s not amusing. I take another drag of the Marlboro and feel its flavor
