Needle in a Haystack Read Free Page B

the Indian girls down the local brothel, that night, under that moon, he asked Maisabé to marry him. Emotional and reduced to tears, she accepted immediately. The soldier advanced another pigeon step: with faint hand, Maisabé barely touched his desperate sex, then pulled her hand away like a startled fish. Such was the progress he made from his proposal of marriage.
    So then came asking permission of her parents, authorization from his superiors, the white dress, the church, the party and then, finally, the surrender. Alone together as husband and wife, she moved straight to penetration and then as abruptly reached a standstill. It was all very brief. Quick relief for Giribaldi, and for Maisabé one more wifely duty performed before God. Afterwards, the groom, half-asleep, couldn’t help asking himself if it had all been worth it. When he awoke, he found Maisabé kneeling at the end of the bed, praying. He took her by the hand with a commanding gesture, brought her back to bed and hugged her tight. She snuggled up to him, looked at him with sad black eyes and said nothing. For Giribaldi, the closeness of this fresh body, unspoilt and so long yearned for, and now so very still and glued to him, began to excite him. And so, as gently as possible, he pushed himself away from her, rolled over and went to sleep.
    Their amorous encounters are not as frequent or intense as Giribaldi would like. Maisabé never takes the
initiative, never offers the slightest seductive gesture, never even a caress. He always has to get things started then lead all the way. At some point she will pant for a moment, before her regular breathing promptly returns. That’s it for her part. Climax is her husband’s domain, something she bares in silent, still resignation. She has never been told pleasure forms part of God’s plan. And so pleasure is not for her. Afterwards, she waits for her husband to fall asleep before kneeling and praying for forgiveness, her body full of anguish. Giribaldi longs for what he has never had, a satisfied woman, with no strength left for anything, abandoning herself and her thoughts entirely to her man, kisses like in the movies. But it would never be like this with Maisabé. Not with her. Nor with any other woman, there is no other woman, nor even the possibility or the thought. Giribaldi knows not the art of seduction.
    About a year ago he resorted to the child argument. This would sanctify their union because it was part of God’s plan, and so it served as a foil to increase the frequency, if not the intensity, of their lovemaking. But it also led down another path. Despite their best efforts, Maisabé didn’t get pregnant. They calculated the days, asked for advice, went to consultants, all to no avail. Her body was fine: all systems go, according to the fertility analysis. Everything was as it should be, but pregnancy just wouldn’t come and with every menstruation Maisabé sank into a deeper pool of despair. Giribaldi agreed, with some reluctance, to a sperm test. He was given the all-clear too. But still nothing. The doctor said the problem must lie elsewhere and so Maisabé started to feel guilty and Giribaldi exploited this guilt by having his way with her more regularly. This satisfied him for
a while, Maisabé being a devout and self-sacrificing woman, but the regular monthly frustration, her periods denouncing her infertility, diminished her will and their amorous encounters soon became poisoned with varying degrees of shame and resentment. The military doctor who was helping them, with all the discretion that corresponded to his rank, spoke to Giribaldi of his experience: many women who can’t get pregnant despite being organically capable decide to adopt. Once they have adopted, as if by magic, they end up getting pregnant themselves. I’d bet my life that’d be the case with Maisabé. Adopt, Major, and you’ll see how everything falls into place. What’s more, adoption is the easiest thing in the