The Messiah Who Might Have Been. Rafael Grugman

Mistress

      Two Novels and Short Story Collections

      The Messiah Who Might Have Been

Translated from Russian by Geoffrey Carlson

      I’m already nine weeks old. Two weeks ago, she didn’t know that I existed, but she was worried about a vague pregnancy. As far as I could tell, she had three girlfriends – Zina, Valentina and Olga – and she told all of them: „I think I’m in serious trouble.“

      To be honest, I didn’t realize at first that she was talking about me. When she called Olga from the editorial office, Olga didn’t get it at first either.

      „Mila, what’s up? What do you mean, ‘you’re in trouble’?…VD?“

      „No such luck. Olya, it looks like I got knocked up.“

      „Really?! When did it happen?“

      „I think…“ she started doing the math. „…about seven weeks ago. Maybe earlier. I’ve been late often, so I didn’t figure it out right away.“

      „Are you sure? Maybe you should go to the doctor?“

      „I know it without the doctor. All the signs are there. The nausea, the colostrum… I’ll have to get another abortion.“

      I shuddered, hearing that abominable word. She reacted immediately when she felt my emotion. „Excuse me, Olya, I don’t feel well,“ she said gruffly and hung up the phone, grabbing at her throat with both hands.

      I realized that I’d been found out – now she knew for sure that there was another life glimmering under her heart. Maybe this was for the best; she would calm down and give up her wild life.

      I knew that I existed before she knew it. Modern medicine erroneously considers a child’s date of birth to be the day he or she comes into the world, although it does not deny that the embryo’s heart is already beating at four months. This means that even before the officially recognized date of birth, the fetus is a living being, gathering enough strength so that five months later it can break out of its shell and begin to live in a new world.

      I gathered this information when Mila (that’s my Mama’s name) was studying The ABC’s for Pregnant Women. This book even included my name, Embryo. I don’t like it – it sounds pretentious – but I don’t want to argue over trifles. Let them give me whatever name they like. Even Fetus. I don’t care.

      The book says that a woman who is about to become a mother should take care of her future child’s health by eating well, avoiding psychological stress and spending more time outdoors. Alcohol, nicotine, excessive physical exertion and strict diets are off limits to pregnant women.

      Going by the book’s recommendations, if one were to rate Mila’s readiness for changes in life on a scale of one to five, she wouldn’t get any higher than a two. I don’t mean to complain about the food, although I’ll admit I’m already sick of French fries. Of course it wouldn’t hurt if my Mama varied the menu, but I won’t get hung up on food. There are more substantial problems. Besides Mila’s harmful predilections for alcohol and smoking that have haunted me from the moment of conception, there is now a third enemy: nervous breakdowns.

      There’s nothing I can do for her; she’s in no condition to control her feelings. Her stresses are my headaches. If she’s not able to build a soundproof wall around her heart and protect herself from unnecessary suffering, I’ll have to take care of myself. So far, this is just a declaratory statement. We are joined by a single thread, and I am powerless to change anything. If she sneezes, I tremble as if there were an earthquake. If she becomes nervous, I grow faint from the stuffiness.

      How can one find psychological independence while in the womb?! The nine-month incarceration is the best time of life, but for me it’s a test of endurance! Instead of a contented and carefree life, I have to be alert, listening to conversations and thinking about my own protection. Maybe these experiences will be useful to me in the future. Who knows, perhaps many great leaders, before they became great, were forging their characters and achieving the elements of survival inside their mothers’ wombs, just as I am doing. They may have also been threatened by the surgeon’s scalpel, but they maintained their self-control, confidence and faith victoriously. Am I a future Emperor Bonaparte? Russian Generalissimo Suvorov? Admiral Nelson? We’ll see, we’ll see… We can talk about my career later. First I have to win my freedom.

      The book my Mama was reading contains several stupid mistakes, which may cause Homeric laughter. It says that a child begins to see and hear consciously at the end of the first month after birth or at the beginning of the second. At the same time, the first cognitive reflexes appear.

      This is complete nonsense! But the things that are described in the book are only the tip of the iceberg. Perhaps when they cut the umbilical cord that connects me to Mama, I will actually begin to perceive the world again. After being blinded by the bright light and losing my ability to think logically during the first minutes of life outside the uterus, I will learn to see again during the second or third week. By the age of four months, I will be able to distinguish colors, and towards the end of my first year of life, I will pronounce my first distinct word. I will also learn to walk. In any case, these are the stages of life ascribed to the Embryo in The ABC’s for Pregnant Women. Mila was looking through this book with interest in the library yesterday. This led me to conclude that despite the threat of abortion, I still have a chance to extricate myself from this situation healthy and unharmed.

      However, despite the auspicious signal, I have to be cautious. Mila’s actions are contradictory. My future is vague and depends entirely on Mama. I am a helpless, passive observer. Tangled in the umbilical cord, I am in a dark and closed space, and I cannot influence her decision in any way. The only way I can entertain myself is to hold onto the umbilical cord, float in the intrauterine pool and perceive the world the same way Mama sees it.

      I don’t know what my Mama looks like, or what her male and female friends look like. But for the past nine weeks I have been able to hear clearly, or rather feel, or rather consciously perceive all her words and actions. I can even read thoughts, a skill which is considered a miracle in the real world. When she smokes a cigarette, I choke from the oxygen deficiency; when she drinks a shot of vodka, it gives me hot flashes. It is especially oppressive if a man puts his weight on her stomach and presses with all his strength. His thrusts cause me pain. Resisting with all my might, I strike madly against the walls of my cell: „Stop! That’s enough!“

      She feels my anger and pushes away my tormentor. The next day she lies in bed for a long time, holding her stomach and asking forgiveness saying: „Lord, why am I in such misery?“

      I feel sorry for her. I try to calm and comfort her: „Mommy, forget about him. We do so well, just the two of us.“ She agrees with me and curses the tormentor: „He can go to hell!“

      Unfortunately, our heavenly pleasure is short-lived. A person cannot go without food for long – I know this about myself – and that person is always occupied in searching for nourishment. But what does a woman need a man for if she is already pregnant?! Everything that was required of him has been done. Many women, Zina being one of them, can do quite well without physical intimacy. Their health does not suffer in any way because of this. But not my Mama! She has some strange, drug-addiction-like dependency! I am willing to resign myself to the presence of a strange man in my room. But let her suitor make a conciliatory step: he should keep his emotions under control and stop beating me up. What have I done to him?! Even if by chance he happened to be my father, that doesn’t give him the right to subject me to torment. I will not endure seven more months of torture!

      But I cannot influence my Mama. Her fateful passion is etched in her genetic memory. During the past few weeks I have not had time to study this as I should, although I discovered to my surprise that unlike me, my Mama is not able to access many of the cells of her genetic memory. Only some individual subprograms are accessible. Ignorance of the past is not a mitigating circumstance; my Mama is coolly repeating the errors of her parents. For instance, if she had the information that I know about her great grandmother, who was a former call girl and contracted venereal disease, perhaps she would behave more prudently with men.

      The telephone