Discretion by Elizabeth Nunez

Author:Elizabeth Nunez [Nunez, Elizabeth]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-0-307-52145-3
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Published: 2012-08-09T04:00:00+00:00

19

When I returned home to Africa, to Nerida, I knew that I could no longer do as I had pretended to do in the past. I could no longer say to myself that I could forget Marguerite, bury her in my memory, live as though she ceased to matter to me, as if I no longer loved her. Now I had to live with the truth of knowing I loved her, that I would always love her. I had to face the possibility—the fact it now seemed to me—that I might never again hold her in my arms, make love to her, feel her skin warm against mine, her heart beat fast against mine.

Some would say it is a gift, this ability to see all, to understand, to perceive the truth even when the truth has been covered up, concealed, when all traces have been removed from the eye. But those who say that do not know the inconsolable loneliness, the pain this awareness brings of seeing into the secret passages of the human heart. Your own heart. Of carrying inside of you the terrible burden of knowledge—your knowledge of your own truth. For it is only you who see this truth. Only you who know that nothing, not even what you know, what you may tell others you know, can change the irrefutable, immutable facts that lie before you: I loved Marguerite. I could not have Marguerite.

Every day brought me to a newer and newer understanding of my mother, closer and closer to forgiving her. My mother could have lived with my father if all that it took to live was food; if all that she needed was shelter. She could have been content in his village if all that it took for contentment was work, work that was meaningful, work that contributed to the community where she lived. If all that it took for happiness was the approval of friends, of her society—a good reputation, a place in her community. I do not think my mother disliked my father. I think she could have learned to make love to him and not feel disgust. And yet I know that none of these mattered to her. That no one, not her mother, not her father, not her friends, not her work, not her love for me could have concealed from her the truth that she knew: she loved another man. She wanted another man. In the end she could not bear that truth and live. In the end she could not make love to my father and breathe.

I loved another woman, but I also loved my wife. I longed for Marguerite but I also desired my wife. I did not want one or the other. I wanted them both. I did not have my mother’s tragic good fortune. I could not choose not to live with one because I wanted the other. But now I had to accept the painful truth that I must live without Marguerite, that I must bear the heartache of knowing I loved her, of knowing I wanted her.

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