Humility

I have often wanted to start a story by alleging that there is something in the water. The way a Casanova might speak of Venusian lips wetting Venetian lids. That way. That way. To this day I am yet to encounter a definitive spine upon which to scaffold such a statement. And yet… And yet…

Anna was cold. As cold as her Slavic name might suggest. She was, however, not Slavic nor did she possess any Slavic ancestry. Her people, the mother-in-law had told me, came from the frigid northern isles of nation. “Yes, yes. Those places that were once ours but are now…” We dare not utter raise such discussions at the dinner table.

Much like the snow that makes a home of the northern frontier, Anna’s skin was porcelain pure with eyes a raven black and lips as red as death. When I first met her, it was the lips — the lips — that struck me. There were nights with dreams and stars upon which a young man could cast a wish. Maybe even two or three. Yes, yes. All of these wishes were granted but it was not long that I learned that the most dangerous thing for man is to get exactly what he asked for.

I hadn’t known, you see — at least not back then — that Anna’s coldness, seductive experience and the ease with which she carried me off to sullen streams was born in dark rooms where her blood was cooled below freezing. It was an accident. An accident that led me to discover that my dearest wife was a lady of the night.

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What can a man do? What can a man so deeply entwined in the throes of love do with such a realization? Oh, I cried. I cried and cried and begged her to withdraw from such treacherous wiles. She would not… She could not. “It’s debt, my love. Debt keeps me trapped in that place. My father — you’ve heard the tales — was a drinker, a gambler, a swine — and with no sons to take on what he owed, the duty fell on me. Mother begged and pleaded that I marry a rich man, a wealthy man, but none of the sort would want a debt-ridden wretch at his beck and call.”

“But what about me? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“And what then, my love? What would come of it? Here you are now. You know the truth. You know my shame. What is there for you to do but to pack your bags and leave?”

But I could not. Perhaps she deduced that I would not. Leave for where? Leave for what? Leave for whom? There was nothing out there but a barren wasteland for men with sterile minds. So, I stayed. Stayed and swallowed my pride, my dignity and called it...

Humility eats away at man. Humility won’t let me sleep. Humility won’t let me eat. Humility will take away one’s will to look another in the eye. Oh how I wish I could do away with this burdensome humility.

Anna cared little for it.

She carried on as though nothing had changed. Her shifts remained the same, starfish for a man praying for a catch. She’d spread her legs, pucker her lips and say, “okay then. Get it over and done with. I’m tired from work today.”

I hated it. I hated her. And from that hate grew a passion I had long since forgotten.

Shall I say we were blessed? Ten years wed and no children to call our own. I must say we were blessed. Love had escaped our home. Resentment cut through each request. Admonition between every syllable. A jab with every word. Often I wondered, “what did she disapprove of in me?” Surely, I was the only man who could know such a truth and still walk by her side. Still call her his wife.

“You’ve got nothing but contempt for me, Anna,” I blurted. “No value for my love. No value for my patience. Despite all that I know, I remain. How then can you be so cold?”

No words were returned. It was with a permafrost glare she gave her retort.

Day after day I waited for her to return a changed woman. Maybe a kiss? Maybe a hug? But “where we are from,” her mother said, “people do no such things.”

It was the 6th of August. As hot a day as a day can be. Anna had no work on account of a local festival passing through the streets. “They don’t want lechers walking amongst the kids,” she said. “And what of the festival?” I asked. “Don’t you want to go for a walk? See the fireworks, eat castella?”

“No, my love. Not tonight. Work,” she said, “even if not tonight, they’ll surely have me in for a double to make up for lost time.”

So, I let her take her rest and I made my way to the town square. Stalls, sales, children turning the little spaces between grown men’s feet a maze for their minds to be set free.

I don’t remember when I ran into her — Romana. Romana, Romana. Hazel-eyed Romana. She was a friend of Anna. Two women, middle-aged, who made a career of bedding lonely men.

“Where is Anna?” She asked.

“Not tonight,” I responded. “She’s tired. You know better than I,” I quickly looked away.

Shamelessly, she took my hand and said, “how I wish I had a man like you in my life. So patient, so understanding. No man would have me for a wife.”

If I was anyone else, I might have said, “and nor should they. A whore for a wife takes from a man everything he has to make him a man.” But I was me and all I had for her stupid jive was a nod and a smile.

“Come on,” she strung me along. “Let’s go by the bridge. The fireworks seem to be coming up from the river when one stands on the bridge.”

She was nothing like Anna. Why? Why did that whore remain so lifelike? How could she be so joyous? Was there no shame in her soul? Did she not see the seriousness of the things she did? It should have mattered but not then. Not when a man denied the comfort of love feels the warmth of another’s sincere touch.

My palm sweated, my heart jetted and my loins raged with a fire that I had, for ages, neglected.

“Romana, Romana,” I called her name, “how long have you… I apologize but I just want to know… How long have you…”

“Been a whore?”

I looked away in a juvenile disgrace.

“Don’t you mind. Ask me anything. If anyone has a right to know, it’s a man as kind as you,” on her face beamed a smile so pleasant and nice. “Well, I’m no young maiden. I’ve been working there for a good two decades. Twenty years of my life to putting smiles on the men’s faces.”

“Are they… Are they all old?”

“Oh, dear no. We’ve got the married men in their 30s whose wives have already called it quits, the singles in their 20s with no gift of gab and everything in between.”

“And Anna… Who does she…”

Romana put her hand on my face and offered the most considerate look I had ever received. “Regulars, honey? You want to know about regulars?”

“Y-yes.”

The fireworks rose to the dark skies and burst into flowery designs. An ashen odor laden with unique flavors filled the air. Romana had her eyes to those heavens where there was little to despair.

On my return home, I couldn’t help but picture Romana, her touch, her hazel eyes. All things I might have loved had I not met Anna. If only, if only my wife was full of life. Maybe then I’d be able to look past her nights away.

There she was, my frostbit northern girl, seated by the window pane with a book in her hand. I wanted to hurt her, shame her as her life had shamed me but what can a man do but secretly hate, resent and let life take all it can from him.

“I was with,” I started, “your friend Romana.”

“Out in the town, was she? Did she have a client by her side?”

“No. It was just her and me. We walked over to the bridge and enjoyed the fireworks for a time.”

“Stealing my friends now, are we? She’s no good for you, darling. Unless you’re okay with whores and we know you’d only hate her as you hate me.”

I broke in a cold sweat, searching my head for a rebuttal. There was none, none, but a quiet dress rehearsal.

“Come on, darling,” she got to her feet and walked over to me. “Let’s not fight. I know what can put a smile on my man’s long face.” Her hands were over my shoulders, her deathly red lips deathly close to mine. If she could, she’d bite, then chuckle off into the night. But she didn’t. Instead she planted a kiss. Long, intimate, even loving. She pulled away and stared into my eyes. A smile was drawn on her face. Unlike every other day, there was no choreography. That was Anna. The Anna I had known way back then. The lady I had fallen for.

“I missed you, my love,” she said. I felt taunted.

“Why would you say such a thing?”

Her hand caressed my cheek. Even in the grueling summer, her skin was cold to the touch. “If I can’t miss you, I’ve got nothing to live for.”

“I-I want you to…” I looked away. She backed away.

“You never speak your mind. You never tell me what’s in your heart. All I have from you is a cold stare and cutting words. I know the things I do hurt you but why won’t you simply tell me what it is you want to say?” She pleaded.

If I was anyone else, I might have said what needed to be said. But I was me. Humble, patient, understanding. And so long as I was that, there was nothing to be said.