Princess Papaya by Himilce Novas

Author:Himilce Novas
Language: spa
Format: epub
Publisher: Arte Público Press
Published: 2004-04-15T00:00:00+00:00

Eleven

“WHEN I WAS AROUND TEN, FRESH AFTER MY mother moved us to the Lompoc Valley, I found the word hermaphrodite in a book on Greek mythology.… I don’t know if this ever happened to you, Penelope, but for a flicker of a firefly, I knew what I was … knew what girls were, and that I’d been told I was one. And I was, sometimes. I’d been told what boys were, too, and that I wasn’t one. But I was, anyway, sometimes. So for just a moment, reading that secondhand book on my mom’s night table, I had a picture of who I was. Then I read through to the end of the paragraph and realized it was just a story about some mythical beast.… So I told myself I couldn’t be that, that it couldn’t be who I was. I don’t think I was really conscious of gender, at that point, anyway. I was just a person.”

Victoria was cradled in the wall, a human niche, sipping the rosemary tea Cooper had brewed, aware that the slightest rustle or shift in her attention might turn the moment, make him recant, stop his daring lark flight. She trailed and memorized his words. Myriad sensations played on her like rapid fire—loss, fear, revulsion, desire, prurience, disbelief, belief, humor, the pull of pity, even the tender mercy she felt for Bembé.

Victoria had long stopped examining her deep heart’s core or questioning the whys and hows of others. Remaining above water seemed daunting enough. There was no room for Jung or Freud. Still, Cooper had shaken her, made her question herself. His confession seemed to come out of left field, blindsiding her, clutching at her lungs. There is a deep self that knows truth before it surfaces. Her erstwhile poet used to tell her that, and back then, she would accuse him of being a Freudian slave.

She had never intended to interrogate him or force the moment to a crisis. Confessions are double-edged. Someone hands you their heart, demands of reciprocity attached. Her question, the words that had precipitated Cooper’s astonishing apologia after an intoxicating evening of passionate and constant intercourse, had been asked innocently enough. She’d held the shaft of his penis in her hand, fingered the soft membrane wedged where testicles should be, and had inquired spontaneously, without reflection, without blame or surprise—perhaps attributing the loss to one of Cooper’s secret missions, which he’d hinted at but refused to discuss. She’d never imagined.… He had been cautious and private in his e-mails. Not one hint. In bed he’d shown her strength, virile resolve, the whole gamut of masculine imperatives. There was no hint of femininity in him. Or was there? Had she looked but refused to see? Could she be so out of touch as to overlook the obvious? And, even so, what did it mean? She could only see him as he was now.

Cooper poured a second cup of rosemary, slipped off his Jockey T-shirt over his head. He paced in

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