Death 5 Rape （Marriage） #28
They sat in silence as Stella steadily ate her way through her dinner, taking little sips of wine in hopes that it would unsour her stomach.
The waiter came over to see if there was something wrong, and Carmelo bumbled through a short conversation, pantomiming paying the check.
At that ugly picture, Carmelo’s over-the-top miming in the moment of his own unhappiness, Stella felt a flare of disgust.
When the waiter left the final change, Carmelo drank down his full glass of wine, then reached for Paolo’s glass.
As Stella was finishing the last of her pork roast, he said suddenly, “She only meant well, I know because she is my sister, but maybe she overstepped asking about children. But you know that’s something people do, even though they shouldn’t,” he was saying, talking quickly—to himself, Stella thought, not her.
“She just meant to show she cared about her family. That’s all.
You should try to put the whole thing out of your mind.
” Now he was talking to her; he was touching her elbow again.
She looked up and saw his soft smile and sad eyes in the candlelight. “I hope you don’t worry about this, Stella,” Carmelo said. “I know she will be so sorry she upset you. She just wants to be your friend and she made a mistake.”
Stella felt sick. How could he take her side? Why wasn’t he leaping to his sister’s defense, shouting invectives at his malicious, vulgar wife? In this moment Stella was sure she had just made the world a worse place and gained no strength from it herself.
“I’m ready to go now,” she said. Her voice sounded like a child’s.
WHEN THEY GOT BACK to their hotel room, Stella was vibrating with remorse and fear.
It was a terrible thing she’d done, terrible.
Now she needed to be strong and make it stick.
She rallied herself, cleared her throat, and told Carmelo she was too upset by what had happened, that she couldn’t bear to look at him tonight, he looked too much like that woman.
She stared at the floor. “You had better leave me alone now.”
He didn’t say anything, and finally she looked up to check his expression, which seemed to be one of disbelief, or suppressed anger. But he pulled his coat back on and said, “I guess I’ll go have a drink.” And he left.
Stella didn’t see him again that night. She had trouble falling asleep, her conscience swirling with remorse and justifications. When she woke up in the morning the linens on the other side of the bed were still pulled to in a perfect nurse’s corner.
UNSURE OF WHAT TO DO WITH HERSELF, Stella dressed in her fourth honeymoon dress, which was a muted green that reminded her of the gray-green of olive leaves back home in Ievoli.
She went downstairs to the parlor area where the hotel staff served breakfast. She sat at a table and drank a cup of coffee the breakfast maid prepared for her.
She ate a pastry. Her chest, the area around her heart, was sore with her guilt.
Some other breakfasters came and went, and Stella had another cup of coffee.
She couldn’t get back into her room; Carmelo had the key, and she didn’t know where he was.
But this was what she’d wanted, to be left alone.
She looked down at her green dress, whose color soothed her.
She thought of the maiden-green skirt of her pacchiana, which she hadn’t worn in a decade.
She would be wearing red, now, married lady that she was.
But here she was in this virginal green.
She carefully folded back the cuffs so that her scars were exposed.
How far away was that dangerous, beautiful world where she had almost died so many times.
It had been six years since her last almost-death, when she had tried to kill herself to escape a nightmare that had seized her mind—a nightmare that was simply a part of her everyday life now.
How fast those last six years had gone by, like they hadn’t mattered, a cycle of ironing and praying and hair-curling and doily-crocheting that both maintained and undid itself.
There were some blemishes and some highlights, but even those ran together, as if her memories had stopped being important.
Stella was spared any difficult conversations because Carmelo came into the parlor when the grandfather clock by the fireplace read nine fifteen. He was dressed in a fresh yellow button-down shirt and his jacket was pressed; he must have pressed it himself just now up in their room.
“Good morning, Stella,” he said, taking the seat across from her. His hair was washed and oiled into a smooth, shiny black sweep over his forehead.
“Good morning,” she replied. She wondered where Carmelo had been all night. Had he gone to his sister? Another hotel? A whorehouse?
They didn’t say anything else to each other through breakfast. Stella drank a third cup of coffee as Carmelo ate two pieces of toast with jam.
Two more days, she had to get through, and two more nights.
ON WEDNESDAY STELLA SUFFERED the products of her malfeasance, her entire body tightened around the coil of her guilty gut.
Carmelo took them to the pier, where they boarded a tourist ferryboat that chugged them down and then back up the river.
There was a bar on the boat, and Carmelo bought himself a bottle of beer.
Stella felt too queasy to want even water.
They did not meet Carmela and Paolo for dinner.
Carmelo took them to a restaurant near their hotel, where the waiter was unkind and made a show of not understanding the French words Carmelo tried to read off the menu.
They ate in silence. Stella’s groin was aching, a lancing pain like she sometimes got during her period, but she knew, unfortunately, that today’s pain was the result of the guilt.
What was Carmelo thinking? Was he giving up on her yet?
Toward the end of the meal, Carmelo left the table to use the toilet, and Stella took the opportunity to drop her steak knife into her handbag.
It felt melodramatic, but maybe she’d need to be melodramatic later.
The walk back to the hotel was too short. As Carmelo closed the door to their room, Stella said, “You better not think you are going to lay a hand on me now.”
He turned to face her, removing his hat. His cheeks were pink and his eyes were angry. “This is ridiculous,” he said. “Do you think I don’t know what you’re doing?” She didn’t say anything. “We’re married,” he told her. “It is my right.”
“If you try anything, you’ll see what’s coming to you,” Stella said. She hated him in that moment and she was certain he hated her. “Even if I have to sleep with a knife under my pillow.”
There was a strange pause as they each tried to think of what to say next. After waiting several beats too long, Stella opened the clasp of her purse, fumbling through her gloves, and produced the steak knife.
“This is ridiculous,” he said again. “What do you think is going to happen? You think we’re going to live out the rest of our lives and never sleep together?”
“Not if I can help it,” she blurted.
Well, there it was.
“Just take off your clothes and get it over with.” Carmelo was shouting. “You’ll see it’s not such a big deal.”
Stella’s stomach contracted, the coil tightening. “No. It’s never going to happen.”
Carmelo threw up his hands. The hotel room key went flying into the wall and bounced onto the carpet. “Remember what you said to my sister yesterday, about God punishing her? What’s your plan there, huh? When people ask you why you don’t have a baby?”
“It’s none of their business,” Stella said, her conviction collapsing into guilt about how she had treated Carmela.
“Right. Because people mind their own business. Because that’s how the world works.”
“It’s easy.” Stella cleared her throat to steady her voice before adding, “I’ll just tell them your pistola doesn’t work.”
The last vestiges of kindness in Carmelo’s face had fallen away. “All right, Stella. Why don’t you think this through a little? Do you realize where this all leaves me?”
“I think . . .” Stella had to clear her throat again. “I think I want to go to bed.” She made a show of lifting the pillow and placing the steak knife under it. “Maybe it would be best if you slept on the floor.”
“No, thank you,” Carmelo said. “I’m not feeling tired. I think I’ll go have a drink.” He tipped his hat to her and said in English, “Have a very nice evening, Signora Maglieri.”
She had saved herself for one more night. She lay in bed, trying to dispel the panic of the encounter. Her heart ached from pounding; it had been pounding and pounding for so many days.
ON THURSDAY SHE WOKE at the weak blond light of dawn, again to a half-empty honeymoon bed.
She hadn’t thought to close the blinds. She lay where she was among the cascade of decorative pillows and watched the ceiling change color as the dawn yellow deepened and brightened.
What a bed this was; she would never sleep in another like it.
She wished she had been able to enjoy it.
She finally got up when she had to pee too badly to put it off any longer.
Locking the bathroom door behind her, she took a long shower, letting the hot water run over her wantonly, then spent some time reassembling her curls in the mirror over the sink.
She would wear her last dress today, her pink Easter dress.
Stella had just pinned on her hat when she heard the key in the lock.
She was standing by the window, emptying ticket stubs that had collected in her handbag onto the bedside table.
Carmelo closed the door behind him, tossed his hat onto the bed, and took off his winter coat.
He was rumpled-looking, his hair awry, like a man, Stella thought, who had slept in a chair.
“Take off your dress and get in the bed,” he said to her.
Immediately Stella’s heart was pounding in her ears again. Her fingers tingled numbly on her ticket stubs. She made herself laugh, as if he were joking.
“Take off your dress and get in the bed,” he repeated. “You’re not my wife until you do it, and I’m returning home with a wife.”
“No,” she said, turning her back on him. The knife was far away, and he was coming toward her; she could hear the compressions of his feet in the plush carpet.
“You’re my wife, Stella. Wives do what their husbands tell them to. And now I’m telling you to take off your dress.” His fingers closed around her upper arm.
“Get your dirty hands off of me,” Stella said, twisting out of his grip.
She could have opened the door to the hallway and run down the stairs, but instead she did what was most familiar and ducked into the bathroom, throwing her weight against the door to close it.
But no—he had jammed his foot in, he was forcing it open.
She fought back with all her strength, her high heels sliding on the shower-wet tile floor, her mind white with panic.
He was so strong—she was nothing in comparison.
The door opened, inexorably, and he was there in the bathroom with her.
He shoved her shoulder so she spun around, her face to the mirror.
He used his left arm to hitch her elbows behind her back; her shoulders twinged at the strain.
He kept her pressed to the sink with his pelvis against her rear end as he yanked her dress up over her hips, then roughly jerked down her girdle and stockings.
It took a long time, because the elastic was strong; when he tried to tear it, it pulled taut against her tenderest flesh.
Stella was trapped in her dream—it was the same listless helplessness, the hands rough and unstoppable as her mind sank into lassitude.
Cold marble pressed against her belly, and she stared at her meaningless face in the mirror through that strange, terrifying moment of skin chafing skin, a dry, uncomfortable contact rub that was only a prelude to the real pain.
Her mind was empty, a sleepy wipe the gray-white color of a dream.
You hold on to it so tightly and so fearfully for so long, and then it’s gone so quickly, like a pot of water emptied into a stream.
She felt her own blood dripping down her left thigh in a fast-moving pearl, the sink marble heating up against her belly.
Carmelo’s face in the mirror bore an expression of intense concentration as he thrust, thrust, and thrust toward a deliberately speeded conclusion.
His liquid followed the pearl of blood down the same trail of her left thigh, and as Carmelo pulled away from her with a noisy sigh she looked down to see pinked-up semen had landed on the white tile floor, milky-clear like the albumen of a fertilized chicken egg.
As Carmelo left the bathroom, shutting the door on her behind him, Stella knelt to the ground and began to clean up the sticky mess with a fold of toilet paper.