FIELD OBSERVATION: AN EXPERIMENT WITH THE VOICE
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Recorded in the first person. The voice is not mine. The material consists of archetypes drawn from personal observations.
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Let me tell you about our lot as women—our petty-bourgeois lot.
I’ve been married twice. Well, ‘married’—the first time for love, the second out of desperation. Although now, in my fifties, I can’t even say which was love and which was desperation. Perhaps both. Perhaps neither. Over the years, you stop dividing men into ‘beloved’ and ‘not so much’. You start dividing them into ‘alive’ and ‘dead’. Not in the sense of whether they’re breathing or not. But in the sense of whether there’s still something inside them, or just a hollow shell.
My first boyfriend was the ‘master of his own life’ type. He kept his back straight not because he did exercises, but because he never bowed to anyone. In the morning, he’d get up when he woke up, not when the alarm told him to. He could slice some bacon at six in the morning, fry some eggs and bacon, and wolf it all down whilst looking out of the window, with an expression as if the universe owed him something. He called his breakfast ‘eating’, not ‘consuming nutrients’. Back then I thought it was sheer arrogance. Now I realise it was freedom.
He didn’t fuss over his appearance. He simply was himself. He’d tighten his belt a notch — and carry on. If his back ached, he’d groan and swear, but he’d still climb up to repair the roof. Because it had to be done. To him, his body was like an old hammer: the handle was worn, the head a hundred years old, but it drove a nail in with a single blow. He didn’t look at himself in the mirror. He simply used it to shave, and even then only every other time. The smell he gave off wasn’t cologne, but life: tobacco, petrol, a bit of sweat. At first I turned up my nose at that smell, but then, when I stopped noticing it, I realised: it was the smell of presence. He was in the house. Even when he wasn’t there.
He loved the holidays. The noise, the guests, the kebabs. He’d stand by the barbecue himself in an old T-shirt, his paunch on full display — and he certainly had a paunch, what would he be without it? — but that paunch sat on broad shoulders, like a bear’s before hibernation. And when he’d say, ‘I’d love to have some girls round right now,’ I wasn’t afraid. Because I knew he wouldn’t go. Not because he couldn’t. But because he didn’t want to. He had enough. The barbecue, the sauna, me, life. He had everything he needed.
He didn’t fight against ageing. He simply lived with it. And because of that, he seemed younger than all his peers, who went for a run in the mornings to ward off a heart attack.
And the second one… The second one married me when the first one left. Not for a girl – for a different life. He said he felt ‘cramped’. And I’d just turned forty by then, with a son at school and a mortgage. And then along came the second one. The picture of propriety. He’d served in the army at one point, then moved into the civil service. White shirts, a tie, cologne. I thought – here it is, grown-up life. Not with some rough bloke, after all.
He got up when his alarm went off. Not because he had to go to work, but because ‘a routine is the key to survival’. His morning began with checking his blood pressure. Then a glass of warm water. Then porridge. Not because he liked it. But because ‘he’s at that age, for goodness’ sake’. At first, I used to fry him some eggs, as I was used to doing. He’d look at them with such horror, as if I’d offered him my own liver to eat. He’d push them away. He’d say, ‘We’ve got to look after ourselves, Lyud. My arteries aren’t what they used to be.’
And so our life began — home-work-home, only instead of the factory, it was the health centre. He dragged me round to the doctors just for company, had tests done, took his pills on schedule. I’d look at his bedside table — there were no books, no cigarettes, just little jars of pills, like in a chemist’s. And I’d think: are we living here, or just waiting to die?
He hated his own body. I didn’t realise it straight away. He looked after it as if it were some stranger’s disabled old man: feeding him on a strict schedule, taking him for walks on the treadmill, weighing him. But there was panic in his eyes. Because despite all that porridge and physiotherapy, his tummy was still sticking out. That stubborn, old-age sort of belly. He fought it, but the belly wouldn’t give in. And I could see it: every morning, looking in the mirror, he was losing. Every day began with defeat.
We didn’t have sex. I mean, we did at first, but it was over quickly. He’d say, ‘My age, my blood pressure, the pills.’ I’d nod, as if I understood. But I remembered my first partner: he was fifty, breathing like a steam engine, and nothing ever let him down. Because he didn’t think about it. Whereas this one thought about it constantly. And because of that, he couldn’t get it up. One time, late at night, he confessed to me – not even to me, but to the ceiling: ‘I’m afraid I won’t be able to. And that’s why I don’t even want to try.’ I patted him on the shoulder and said, ‘Come on, it’s all right.’ But I realised: he didn’t want me. He was afraid of himself.
And that’s just when this story happened. Nothing out of the ordinary, don’t get the wrong idea. It was just that a young lad came to work with us. An intern. Young, with a sparkle in his eyes, looking up at his seniors. And then one day — at a company party, after everyone’d had a few drinks — this lad went up to my second-in-command. And said something. I didn’t hear what he said. But I saw it: the lad was looking at him with the sort of adoration people reserve for fathers. Not ‘dads’, but Fathers — with a capital F. The sort who can grab you by the scruff of the neck and say, ‘Do it this way.’
And I saw my second husband tense up completely. His face turned to stone. He replied — curtly, authoritatively. The boy walked away, deflated. But my husband stood there for another minute, then slowly made his way to the loo. And I followed him. Not because I was spying on him. But because I knew: right now, he’d be standing there in front of the mirror, looking at his hands.
I peeked in. He was standing there, his palms pressed against the sink, staring at his fingers. At the age spots. At the veins. And I suddenly realised: this boy wasn’t just offering him respect. He was offering him a resurrection. A chance to become, once again, someone who was idolised. But he couldn’t do it. He was afraid his body would let him down. That at the very moment of truth, he’d turn out to be a fraud. And so he refused. Not on principle. Out of fear.
That’s when I made the comparison. The first one — he’d have refused too. But in a different way. He’d have patted the lad on the shoulder and said, ‘Go on, get to work, son.’ And he’d have forgotten about it. Because he doesn’t need validation. He already knows who he is. But this one—he doesn’t know. And he never will. Because he’s afraid of being put to the test.
We’ve split up with the first one, but he still pops round sometimes. He’ll hammer in a nail here, or slip us some money there. He smells of life. We live with the second one. He smells of cologne and fear. I make him porridge. I take his blood pressure. And I look at his hands — those very ones, with the age spots. They can’t hold on to anything anymore. Not even me.
That’s how I live. And I think: it’s not about sex. Nor is it about the belly. Nor even about age. It’s about whether a bloke feels alive. Or whether he’s already dead, just still walking around. The first sort is alive. He eats bacon, smokes, swears and doesn’t worry about a thing. And his body repays him in kind. The second sort is dead. He does everything right, but inside he’s empty. And his body realised that a long time ago.
And me? Well, what about me? I’m a woman. I see all this. And I make my choice. But that’s a completely different story.
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Inspired by the text ‘Let me tell you about my petty-bourgeois life’ by @nebrizkiy. Thank you for the tone.
