In Buenos Aires, we hosted dinners together. He would invite his friends. Professors, writers, poets, ex-politicians, important people. This was 1975, ’76. The beginning of, Artemisia paused, took a sip of her wine. You are familiar with Argentina’s Dirty War? I nodded, though in fact the phrase meant very little to me. Paramilitary groups, a coup, the term desaparecidos. I could feel the underside of my right thigh growing slick against the top of my left. This was the time, Artemisia said, of the Dirty War. It lent, to these gatherings, a frisson. Well, it lent for me. Perhaps others felt as more—real, the possibility of danger. But for me—a knock at the door, yes I startled, but what I felt, in here, she moved her hand to her breast, it was not fear, she shook her head, it was the feeling the actress has when she is, she lifted her hand and waved it, at the side of the stage, waiting for the line so that she can—for the cue. The sense that we might all, at any minute, be, she moved her hand through the air as if grabbing something. For me it was thrilling. Perhaps you think I am callous, describing things in this manner. Or cynical, frivolous. She shrugged. I am only telling the truth. And anyway, at the time, I was more interested in how Virgilio’s friends were treating me. These important people. They were all decades older. And yet they treated me well. Whether at his instruction or of their own accord I have no way of knowing. I suspect he must in some way have prepared them for me. None of them were condescending. Well. The men condescended in the way that men always condescend toward women. What I mean is that I was treated as an equal. Or as much of an equal as a woman could be in that place, at that time. Even when we made love, and here Artemisia stubbed her cigarette out in the ashtray. The vein in my neck was throbbing now and I could feel the sweat pooling under my arms, could feel it dampening the cloth of my tank top, and I nodded because I felt she was waiting for some kind of signal, though in retrospect I think it more likely that she had paused, in fact, for dramatic effect. Anyway I nodded and took a sip of wine. My mouth was dry and the wine tasted bitter. Artemisia lit another cigarette. Even when we made love, she continued, he did not force himself on me. He was in some ways instructive. But always, there was the asking and the giving of permission. But then, and here Artemisia shook her head, blowing from her mouth, as she did, a cloud of smoke, when we got to New York he became— She paused, smiled. There is a Plath poem. You know the line Every woman adores a Fascist? “Daddy,” I said. That’s from “Daddy,” of course—I’m reading— Yes, Artemisia said, I noticed, and I blushed because I remembered then that she had. Not a very good poet, she continued, but an interesting person. And the author of a few very good poems, of which “Daddy” is one. Virgilio had been, as I said, a father to me. And now he became a fascist. He wasn’t, to be clear, an actual fascist. Though Argentina had plenty in the years after the war. Even my grandparents, my father’s parents, well. I was still young when I realized there was a reason they had emigrated from Italy and it wasn’t because they had fought with the partigiani. But Virgilio, no, he was not a fascist. Not politically and not emotionally or physically, either. Not until New York.
Almost from the moment we landed, Artemisia exhaled smoke, there were signs. Virgilio was not as comfortable in English as I was, and so, when we landed, I was the one who called the woman who had rented me an apartment, I was the one who gave the cab driver directions. I was the one who spoke to Virgilio’s department head. My landlady lived in the apartment below the one she had rented to me. She had offered to let me use her phone for the first few days. Just until I was able to get my own line set up. Virgilio went downstairs to call his department head. A moment later, I heard him call my name. The necessary English words were escaping him. He needed my help. Well, it had been a long flight. Naturally he was exhausted. So I came downstairs and he gave me the phone. Artemisia exhaled smoke. Me helping him. I could tell right away that he was finding the experience unpleasant. Whereas he had found the inverse very pleasant. The experience of being the helper, of helping me. At some point the landlady asked if we were father and daughter. Artemisia smiled. Possibly this, too, disconcerted him. And then I began to notice little comments about Columbia. What a shame that it wasn’t at the level of Harvard, of Princeton, of Yale. Throwaway comments, but persistent. How it was too bad I hadn’t gotten into one of the first-tier Ivies. I don’t know if he thought he was being subtle. Perhaps he did, if only because I said nothing. I wished to save him the embarrassment. But so perhaps thinking himself subtle, he began to go further. He began to speak about the undergraduates he was teaching at Sarah Lawrence. How exceptional they were. He told me that of course they’d all gotten into Yale and Harvard and Princeton. But they’d chosen to go to a smaller school. A liberal arts college. At a liberal arts college, he said, they knew they would receive the full attention of their instructors. And those instructors would of course be full professors. Not underqualified graduate students whose time was divided between research and teaching and classes of their own. He said this all very casually. Or he must have thought he was being very casual. Certainly he could not have thought his jealousy was as obvious to me as it was. His sense of inadequacy. Because still I remained silent. As I said, I did not wish to embarrass him. He had been, Artemisia exhaled smoke once more, ground her cigarette into the base of the glass ashtray. As I said, he had been a kind of father to me. To see him diminished in this way. She paused a moment, shrugged, and I thought of her breasts moving under her shift, perking and then flattening, she was not, I could tell, wearing a bra, for now a light breeze was blowing and I could see her nipples, hard beneath the loose linen. It was difficult, Artemisia said. I felt implicated. I felt myself diminished. One searches, in one’s choice of partner, for a kind of reflection. Sometimes consciously, sometimes unconsciously. Often unconsciously. And often not an honest reflection. One searches for a better-than reflection. An as-I-wish-I-were reflection. This is, Artemisia took a sip of wine, knit her eyebrows together, pitiable is perhaps the word. Meschino, my father would say. Small. But it is also human. Virgilio had reflected well on me. He had shown me to be intelligent, worldly, mature. He had shown me to be older than my years, which is often what young people, what young women in particular, wish for. Perhaps you, Artemisia said, you, too, have wished for this. And now I thought of my former professor. I thought of how the games we had played, me taking dictation from him while—how they had emphasized not my maturity but my inferiority. But in New York, Artemisia continued, he shrunk. And as he shrunk, so did I. At first I remained silent. I was saying nothing. I was ashamed. But then, Artemisia shrugged, something changed. I became a little colder. A little less deferential. A little bolder. I began to treat him a bit like a child. Knowing what someone else does not: this defines the relationship between the adult and the child. The adult knows something that the child does not. And knowing how foolishly he was behaving I began to protect him. From the world, but also from himself. His accent was difficult to understand, so at restaurants, I ordered for him. I helped him set up a bank account. We went shopping together and I picked out his clothes. What I mean to say is that in public it was clear, Artemisia smiled, who it was who wore the pants. She shook her head. So, okay, at first I behaved this way only with Virgilio. With him I was aloof and assertive, and with others humble, shy. But then, again, something changed. It became natural to act in this way at all times, with all people. And I found that, acting in this way, I attracted many men. Many American men. It’s a cliché. That the woman who seems not interested, who plays what is called hard to get, that she is attractive to men. Any women’s magazine will tell you this. Any romantic comedy. But clichés become clichés because they are rooted in truth. At least this has been my experience. Of course not every man will find himself interested in a woman he suspects does not respect him. But many will. Many of the men I encountered did. I did not tell Virgilio about the men who had made their interest clear. Mostly they were other graduate students. But there were professors as well. A few bold undergraduates. But his jealousy. She shook her head again. Jealousy does not need confirmation to flourish.