Waiting for Robert Capa

Waiting for Robert Capa by Susana Fortes Page B

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Authors: Susana Fortes
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terrible disgust and immense exhaustion came over her, and she thought to herself that neither of them deserved what was about to happen. Because she suddenly knew that when he lifted his head, he’d look at her exactly the way he was looking at her now: his face severe, distant, his naked arm spread across the sheet. She wasn’t certain by way of her mind but through her body and the goose bumps on her skin that foretold what he would say, word for word, in a harsh tone, his voice unrecognizable. And while she listened to his string of stupidities, the kind men have repeated hundreds of times to women—in every kind of room, in every part of the world—that’s when she felt the boiling blood flowing within her face. It’s him or me. It’s here or there. It’s black or white. She thought he’d be different, but no. As absurd as any of them. Ridiculously simple. Capable of throwing it all away for nothing, for stupid male pride that can’t appreciate what it has and wants more. To be the only one. Only him. Nobody else, not now, not before, not never. Sure, then go ahead, walk out that door and go back in time ten years. When I was still a sweet girl, and there still was no trace of a vase with white tulips, or a small house on the lake, or a damn pistol on top of the table, or salesclerks who throw anyone out of their stores by pushing them, or going out at the crack of dawn to distribute pamphlets through the streets of Leipzig, or Georg, or Wächterstrasse, or anything, not one thing, nothing. I mean who did that Gypsy think he was? Did the world begin when he was born? For the love of God.
    She stormed out of their bed, unable to believe what she was hearing. Because now he didn’t have her cornered, nor was he forcing her to make odious and uncouth comparisons. Who’s better? Who was worse? How did he do it to you? Like I do it? What he wanted was to hurt, offend, and humiliate. That’s why he brought out that photograph that appeared in Vogue of Regina Langquarz, tall, with short hair and legs like a heron. In fact, had she ever asked him about her? Didn’t matter. There he was, telling it all in great detail, offering explanations that no one had asked for. Or about the Spaniard he met while he was in Tossa del Mar while he was on assignment with Berliner Illustrierte . You damn Hungarian bastard. Damn the very sight of you. I never want to see you again in my life. Stupid vain bastard. Bastard. Bastard. Bastard … This was what was running through Gerta’s mind as she rushed to put her pants and her shirt back on. Her lips trembling, she was overcome with a nausea that forced her to lean up against the wall and place her hands over her mouth.
    He looked at her from the bed as someone would at a film that was being projected. But one where the reel, at some moment, had come undone, and it was now impossible to rewind or to find a way back that wasn’t rigged with mines of pride. He would have given anything to be able to stop her, to grab her by the arm and look her straight in the eye, without resorting to the words that always cornered him but, rather, to their bodies. That was the language he felt safe in. He wanted to kiss her mouth and her nose and her eyelids and afterward push her onto the bed and enter her, firm and steady, dominating her at his own rhythm, until reaching that place that was exclusively his, where there wasn’t room for other men or other women, the past or the future, where you couldn’t find Georg Kuritzkes or Regina Langquarz to stand in the way. But he was left paralyzed, scratching his chin, wrinkling his forehead, with his head against the wall and a weightlessness in his stomach. He had a strong sensation that every second that passed was being played out against him. That he should say or do something soon. Anything. Regardless, he still waited until the last moment for her to be the one to do it. In some things

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