The Day I Killed My Father (15 page)

I have to say, she was pretty limited … No, she didn't reveal her conclusions to me. The person who did reveal them was my own father, which for me only enhanced the flavour of my revenge. It played out like this: first, she invited him down for a private interview. She started the conversation by asking him if I'd had a vivid imagination as a child. My father, of course, didn't know what to say. Then she asked if another man had lived with us when I was young: an uncle, or an employee perhaps. My father said ‘no', and that after my mother's death he'd hired a driver, but only recently had he come to live in a shed behind our house. She also asked him about his feelings towards me — if, at any time, for example, he'd wished that I hadn't been born, or things like that. My father must have really got his tongue in a twist at this point. Finally, the psychologist told him that she'd need to have him back for another interview. When he asked her why, all she said was that she couldn't explain anything at that moment.

The second time he went back, he found himself meeting the psychologist's supervisor, whom I'd met two weeks earlier in a particularly difficult session. She was a woman of about sixty, with a respectable, intimidating air about her. She played the devil's advocate, questioning everything I said; but, by this time, I was so into my ‘abused child' role that my performance would have convinced all the members of the Vienna Psychoanalytic Society in Freud's day. It was in the interview with her, which lasted nearly two hours, that my father was informed that there were strong signs I'd been molested by him as a child. This explained my withdrawn, unaffectionate behaviour towards him — though the lack of affection appeared to be reciprocal, as my psychologist and her supervisor had gathered from the things he'd said about me. And this, they'd concluded, could be considered further proof that something very serious had fractured our relationship.

My father tried to argue that it was all rubbish, and that if he was guilty of something like that he'd never have sent me for psychological counselling, which he'd done precisely because he suspected I was having problems with my sexual orientation. They were both unyielding in their conviction. His argument might have worked a month earlier — but by this stage they'd picked up too many signs of something very strange having happened between my father and me. Do you know how the supervisor answered my father? ‘The fact that you took the initiative in seeking psychological counselling for your son is indeed strange. But, just as the reasons that lead a criminal to return to the scene of a crime are apparently fathomless, the motives that led you to bring your boy to my colleague's practice are only inexplicable on the surface. I am referring to your subconscious, sir.'

When he told me, at the top of his lungs, what had happened at the psychologist's practice, I had to make a great effort not to laugh. Not least because his girlfriend, who was watching the scene, had such an expression of shock on her face. The specialist in psychological torture had got a taste of his own medicine. I'd suffered because of the story that I was adopted; now it was his turn to feel desperate. I'd show him who the weak one was … What was my response? That I'd told the psychologists about my childhood feelings and fears, and that it wasn't my fault if his girlfriend's friend had made that assumption. I shot the girlfriend a look of contempt. ‘The funniest bit is that you sent me to see a psychologist because you thought I was a poof. And now you're the poof — a poof who used to fuck his own son,' I said, unable to suppress a mocking smile. When he heard that, he flew at me. I leapt back, while his girlfriend tried to hold him off. ‘Don't — you're only going to make things worse,' she kept saying. I managed to escape to my room, and locked myself in, cackling with laughter. I was avenged.

How did it all end? Weeks after this scene, my father's girlfriend showed up at our place, alone, and asked if she could talk to me in my room. She said that since I kept remembering vile details about the monster who used to appear in my room to fondle me, her psychologist friend and the supervisor were thinking about contacting a family court judge, because the case was beyond their jurisdiction. She explained that a court order would probably be issued to strip my father of custody of me. Additionally, criminal charges would certainly be brought against him, and he might even go to jail. ‘You're going to destroy your father. So think hard about what you're doing. If it helps, he doesn't know I'm here, nor did he ask me to talk to you. This was on my own initiative,' she said.

My father's girlfriend was a brunette of about twenty-four, give or take a few years, and very attractive. I'd already masturbated a couple of times thinking about her — especially her breasts, with her nipples always sticking out because she never wore a bra. When I saw her there in my room, begging me to save my father's hide, I couldn't resist the temptation to give my revenge a grand finale. I said I'd tell the psychologists that the story about the monster wasn't true if she agreed to have sex with me. I expected her to act as if I'd offended her honour, but she surprised me. She locked the door and took off her blouse, jeans, and high-heeled sandals. Wearing just her knickers, she lay down on the bed. ‘Come,' she said. So I went.

The poof, the freak, the sicko, after sullying his dad's reputation, had lost his virginity with his dad's girlfriend. Sweet revenge, you must agree … No, he never knew what happened with his girlfriend. He died thinking that I'd told the psychologists it wasn't true, to ease my conscience. At least, that's what I think.

Sometimes, I think he did send his girlfriend to talk to me, and that he did know she'd had sex with me. Maybe if I hadn't proposed it, she would have done so herself, as part of a plot hatched by my father. What makes me think that? She didn't seem surprised by my gall, and shortly after I denied everything to the psychologists, saying it had all been a joke, she showed up in a flash car that my father had given her. But my father wasn't the sort to give his girlfriends expensive presents. What do you think? You don't think anything, I know. I forgot — you can only have opinions when they're of direct interest to you … The crazy whore to whom I was supposed to have lost my virginity? She was real, but she was actually my second.

–22–

Sorry? You're going to terminate our sessions if I don't admit … Fine, I admit it: everything I said in the last session was made up. I didn't go to a psychologist, much less accuse my father of molesting me. Nor did I have sex with any girlfriend of his. What made you think I was lying? You're right: such defiance wasn't in keeping with the weakness I always demonstrated in my relationship with my father, especially after my mother's death … Go on … If I had confronted him as a teenager, even if contumeliously, our story — my father's and mine — most probably wouldn't have taken the fatal turn it did. Right …

I'm sorry, I only wanted … Truth be told, even though the things I told you didn't take place objectively, they did subjectively. My father only said that he was going to take me to see a psychologist, but he soon abandoned the idea. To do it would have shown some kind of concern for me. But, after he considered taking me for psychological counselling, I imagined avenging myself in the way I told you … The girlfriend? You want to know about the girlfriend? … Yes, she existed. I wanted her, like I wanted several of my father's girlfriends. They were beautiful young women, provocative in the way they dressed and undressed. We had a swimming pool, as I mentioned before, and they were always parading through the back yard in bikinis.

This brunette, in particular, drove me crazy. From time to time, she'd ask me to rub sunscreen on her back … I'd do it, then run to my room, trying to hide my erection, which continued even after I'd masturbated. When my father dumped her, I thought about going to her, to declare how I felt about her. I fantasised about consoling her in my arms, while I kissed her neck, her mouth, her breasts … You know, one of the things I remember about my adolescence was hovering outside my father's bedroom door when he was in there with a girlfriend, trying to hear some kind of sound that would indicate they were having sex. A moan, a whisper, a muffled cry — anything. But I never heard a thing, I think, although sometimes my memory suggests I did …

Go ahead and ask … What's the first image that comes to mind when I think about my father having sex with a girlfriend? A scene of sodomy, perhaps … Of a man with an enormous phallus tearing a woman who dared to offer herself to him … That's the kind of thing you wanted to hear, right? I know your lot. But enough. I'm not interested in interpretations. Indulge in them far away from me, and without my collaboration. What purpose do they serve, for God's sake? Above all, I agreed to tell my story in order to organise it in my own mind, full stop. You're no more than a supporting actor here; do you understand? So don't try to become a protagonist with your interpretations.

Would you like me to go on? Fine. But let's stick to the story, because we're close to the denouement.

My wife returned to Paris after a month's absence. Our reunion was marked by a certain coldness. Not that there wasn't hugging and kissing, but it was as if we were performing a ritual required by a hypothetical protocol. While we were still at the airport, she justified her delay, saying that, because of the extra time she'd had, she'd managed to clear up all outstanding matters with the lawyers handling her uncle's inheritance and, as a result, a considerable amount of money was already in her bank account. During the week that followed, we gradually got back into our Parisian routine. The joy the city had once inspired in us, however, was no longer there. Everything had lost its magic. My wife had already graduated from her cooking course, and I was about to finish my Master's, without a distinction. After it was completed, we travelled in Europe a little, wandered through a few South-East Asian countries in search of some exoticism, and returned to Paris. We spent another year in this limbo, putting off a decision that we knew had already been made: to come back to Brazil.

Why did we come back? It's hard to say. I think that when we have no reason to stay away, we're obliged to content ourselves with the reasonlessness of staying close to our roots. This is, in my opinion, an impulse common to everyone who has gone through the experience of an inexplicable return. I'm speaking for myself, not my wife. But you know what? Maybe she was also seeking a higher reason for this return to our homeland, above and beyond the other reason that made her push a lot for us to come back. I'll get to that later.

The fact is, we came back. We spent the first few months in a rented flat while we renovated and decorated the house that my father had given us as a present, in a neighbourhood near his. My wife, as was to be expected, took great care with every detail, with the help of an architect/interior decorator who pocketed a fortune in commissions from the purchase of materials, furniture, and accessories. The result, of course, was very good. It combined the right proportions of personal touch and design.

When the house was ready, I was surprised by a request from my wife: she wanted us to make our marriage legal. There was, in this, a yearning for social recognition, a need to use the front door in the world of the rich and powerful that was my family's habitat — I mean, my father's. My wife was fascinated by my father's network of friends and contacts. I was dragged off to parties and dinners every night, and was always impressed by her self-assuredness on these occasions. It's true that my wife had never been shy, but her behaviour was a source of constant astonishment to me.

I did and I didn't like it. I'll try to explain: I liked it, because having a wife like mine could be considered irrefutable evidence that I wasn't the weirdo my father made me out to be. If I'd managed to seduce her, it was because I was an interesting man. But, at the same time, I didn't like it, because exposing myself like this might reveal that, contrary to what seducing such a woman indicated, I really wasn't such an interesting man, and maybe was even a weirdo.

Our wedding was a grand occasion, with about one thousand guests, a sumptuous dinner, and photographs in the social columns. My father felt it was incumbent on him to spend an incredible sum on this demonstration of power and prestige. My wife looked stunning in her bridal gown. When she walked into the church, to be given away by my father, who was especially handsome that night, a murmur of admiration ran through the audience. Even I was impressed … How did I feel about the wedding? Anaesthetised. I took part in it all, as if none of it had anything to do with me. It's not that I didn't love my wife; but, at that moment, I was hollow, with nothing inside me. I didn't have good or bad feelings, an intellectual repertoire, nothing. I moved like a robot, responding to outside stimuli with the minimum expenditure of energy — not least because I had none.

This sensation continued through our honeymoon, although I did my best to pretend to be happy. We went to a paradisiacal island, and I spent hours staring at the sea. The sea from which I'd been saved by my father, and in which I now imagined I was dissolving. It wasn't a death wish, because even wishes require some kind of desire. I just thought about being taken away by the water, like a defenceless child. Defenceless — and motherless. I'd never thought so much about my mother as on my honeymoon. I'd never missed my mother as much as I did on my honeymoon. It is curious that, right when a man is most required to prove his manhood, I had become so childlike. I cried in secret, and these tears were so much bitterer because it was more and more difficult to remember the contours of her face, the timbre of her voice.