Chapter 2: Living in hell

It's an obsession; I'm obsessed with my lover, Sophie, who is also my biological mother. I just don't care; I'm in love with her and I must find her.

I tried to make contact with her; I send e-mails to her, but they came back labeled 'Unknown user', she must have changed her e-mail account.

I looked up the Buenos Aires yellow pages and found her phone number. I called her home, answered by a maid the first two times. I didn't understand her and she didn't understand me. It was late and it was Friday the third time and it was Sophie who answered this time with a weak, "Si, quien habla..."

She hung up when I said, "Sophie, Mother, it's me, Marie..." The line was dead the next time I called, and the operator told me that line wasn't in use anymore; another dead end.

I was so desperate that my life had lost any sense of purpose. I called Northeastern the first week of her absence and said that I was sick with the flu and that I would resume teaching at the end of the course. I was so devastated that I didn't even go out to buy food, eating whatever leftovers I had in the fridge. Mom called, eager to ask how we were doing with the cold; I knew Mom was very curious and wanted to, in a good way, nose around our relationship. She loves me very much.

She must have had a feel something that was very wrong when my answers were monosyllabic and nasal, considering that I was severely congested from so much crying. She asked if I was sick and told her I had the flu, and then she asked me if Sophie was taking good care of me, and I confessed that Sophie had gone back to Buenos Aires and I was utterly alone in the middle of a new bout of crying. She didn't say any more than her goodbyes and hung up.

My doorbell rang early in the afternoon of the next day; I let it ring and ring, as I didn't want to see nobody and there was silence again after a few minutes. I didn't hear the front door unlocking or my mom's steps until she opened my bedroom door and spoke to me.

"Oh my God, Marie, what happened to you?"

"Mom, is that you?" was my whimpering response.

"Yes, my child, it's me, Mom, what's happening to you?"

"Oh Mom, Mom, if you only knew..." and I burst out crying inconsolably.

"That's what I'm here for, to know what's happening..."

Silence.

"She left me, Mom; she left me without a word."

Mom was speechless; she sat down on the edge of the bed and hugged me like when I was a little girl; I leaned my head on her breast and began to hum lullabies. My weeping was diminishing little by little, until it completely stopped. Then the mother she was told me with authority,

"Look at you, unwashed with tangled hair, and ... when was the last time you changed your underwear? Go get a shower while I fix something to eat and we'll talk later."

Half an hour later, showered, my hair clean and in a ponytail, and with clean underwear under my bathrobe, I took a seat at the kitchen table and I realized I was starving and wolfed down the meal Mom prepared.

Then with each of us holding a cup of coffee in our hands, Mom asked me what had happened in so short time, having found me almost in a suicidal state. So I told her everything since the first contact we had made via the internet. She didn't move a muscle even when I told her the very much edited version of our affair. It was when I got to the episode of my father's picture, the old picture she had given me so long ago, that her face changed, and she only asked, "Is Sophie your biological mother, the woman your father stole you from?"

In a broken voice, I only answered, "Yes"

She now understood my drama and tears, but for the wrong reasons; she thought I was ashamed, repentant, full of sin, and embarrassed with a sense of guilt; that wasn't even close. I didn't give a shit if I was inside Sophie's body for nine months and that's what I was going to try to convince Mom about. I wasn't ashamed, quite the opposite, in fact. I had been able to win over, first fuck, and then make love to the most beautiful female I've known in my entire life. I wasn't ashamed of anything we did; I was desperate because I wasn't with her.

"You know that I'm a lesbian and have known it forever, don't you, Mom?"

"Yes, but your mother ... you can't be in love with your mother, it's..."

I interrupted her, "You are my real mother, Mom. Sophie is just another woman to me, the kind of woman I like, true. I'm attracted to mature woman, that's all, but it's you I look up to as a mother figure, not Sophie."

"You want to be with her, don't you?"

"Yes, as a lover, not as a daughter, but she doesn't want anything to do with me, all because of that damn picture with which my father steals my happiness even after his death." Seeing Mom's face, I said, "Sorry, Mom; I know he was your brother, but he was less than a father to me."

"Yes, I know, my love; he had a wild streak and the one who acted as your father was really your pop, Jim."

Mom, always the pragmatist, said, we should finish dinner and go to bed early; she was tired form the trip. It was then that I asked her how come she was in Boston, not that I wasn't glad and thankful, and she told me that after talking with me on the phone the day before, Pop drove her to Des Moines Airport in the car, and waited with her until plane to Boston left before going back home. It had been a long night.

Mom had breakfast ready for me when I got up the next morning, and after a few minutes of talking, I decided to go to my job at the University and continue with my course. Besides having supper ready when I got home that evening, Mom had developed a plan on how I could find a way to connect me with Sophie. Jim, my pop, is who would be the required official help to gather the information we needed. She explained it to me; it would be like this; Pop would contact the agency where my father worked and would ask them to get him as much information as they could about the contacts he had with Argentine civilians, and whether he had any love relationships in that country. After so much time had passed, more than twenty years, they would want to know the reasons for such inquiries, of course. The reason was going to be the truth: a daughter who wanted to find the biological mother she didn't know. The plan was good, but the difficulties were almost insurmountable.

All the agencies placed obstacles; they created problems for us and tried a fact as simple as the stay of an American official on foreign soil as if it were a state secret; well, for them, maybe it was, but it was only a family matter to us, nothing more, nothing less.

Pop Jim went and came back to and from Washington, DC, a half a dozen times in the next two months without results. They sent him from one office to another, from one building to the next, and he always got the same answer: 'We couldn't find anything in the archives; we're very sorry'.

He carried a letter from the chairman of his political party in Iowa for his district's Representative in the House with him the next time he went to DC. He explained the family situation to a secretary who scheduled an appointment for him the following day. The Rep told Pop that he would do everything he could to get him some answers, and also the name of someone in the American Embassy in Buenos Aires whom I could contact to get names and/or addresses.

My parents received a call to go to the Secretary of State two weeks later, and talked with an Assistant Secretary for Latin American affairs. Once there, the officer gave them a letter addressed to an employee at the embassy in Buenos Aires who would attend to me and would facilitate any needs that would arise.

That was the first phase; I now had to make plans. I took a pen and a notepad first thing, and started to think and write down everything I remembered that Sophie had told me in our talks about her city, friends, or her family. A name came to my mind like a flash, Maria de las Mercedes; yes, but what was her surname? Then I remembered it was always her friend's name, never her family name, but I have another name, that of her gay son, and I was sure there wouldn't be many of the gentry families of Argentina whose members had those two names. That would be a start; and if I find that family I had another name to use privately: Maria de las Mercedes' lover, Susana, the ex-model.

The spring semester flew by and ended in last days of June, and I soon was on a plane to Buenos Aires, a very big city. I arrived at Ezeiza International Airport after a tiring thirteen hour flight; 12 hours and 20 minutes to be exact, at 10:45 Buenos Aires time. What with customs, baggage clearance, and getting transport for the eighteen mile trip to the city's downtown and my hotel, it was half past noon when I got to see 'la Avenida 9 de Julio', (July 9th Avenue) the widest in the world with its imposing Obelisk in the well-known intersection with Corrientes Street. July is winter in the south, and it is very cold; no snow or anything like that, just cold from the winds coming from the Patagonia and the Antarctic.

I went to my hotel to get a bath and change in warmer clothes first thing. I went to a good pizzeria after that, and ate a wonderful pizza accompanied by a good draft beer. With a full stomach, I called the embassy number Pop had gotten for me in DC, and made an appointment for nine o'clock the next day.

Mr. Williamson's office was on the second story of the embassy building, and his secretary escorted me in at nine on the dot. After the usual greetings and pleasantries, I told him what I needed and why. I gave him the names of the people I remembered, the name of my mother, Sophie Petrucci, and my father's name. He excused himself and left his office. He came back full of apologies after more than half an hour, and told me all the information about my father was classified, but if I gave him a little time, not more than forty eight hours, he would get me all the information I needed.

An embassy messenger handed me a sealed envelope which contained the data I needed forty eight hours later. I studied my father's dossier first, the part they wanted to give me, of course. There was the history of my biological parents, how they had met, and all that came after that. It was included my abduction and the search and pursuit by the Petrucci family. The rest were the addresses and phone numbers of the Argentine people I had asked for.

First thing I did that morning was dress as elegantly I could, take a taxi, and head to Barrio Parque Palermo Chico, the elegant residential district of Buenos Aires where my mother, Sophie, lives. The property was stunning to say the least. It's the house of very rich people.

It's a grand family mansion on 1,368 sqm (14,725 ft²) of land, with elegant interiors and architecture. It has a commanding position amongst Buenos Aires most prestigious inner-circle residences. Both the home and grounds offer an astonishing degree of privacy from the outside world; the glamorous decor fuses the splendor of times gone by with today's modern conveniences. It has a grand entrance foyer, high ornate ceilings, parquet floors, original fireplaces, and wood-paneled walls. 6 bedrooms, one study/library, gym/hobby room, master suite with sunroom, dressing room, and luxury en-suite bathroom, and 4— other bathrooms. Also it has manicured gardens, an indoor pool, and private driveway with a remote security gate and video entry. Amazing.

I rang the doorbell at the security gate and a security guard answered the call. "Si que desea"; I had a big problem, I don't remember my native language, Spanish, and the guard didn't understand English or Italian, so I did the only thing that popped into my head, I pulled paper and pen from my handbag and wrote my mother and my own names, and passed it through the bars of the gate. The man read the written names and with "Espere un momentito, por favor" went to the house.

It was cold in the empty street, where a strong wind made it seem even colder. I was starting to despair after waiting for fifteen minutes that someone would come to the door and tell me that nobody in the house knew me, when I saw the man coming back with a maid following him. He opened the gate and let me enter, closing it behind me. The maid motioned for me to follow her and we went to the house. I almost turned around to return to my home in Boston as quickly as possible when she led me into the foyer. For the first time since Sophie had left me and Boston six months ago, I asked myself 'what the hell I'm doing here?' This isn't my world; my world is Boston and my parents' humble, but comfy, house in Fort Dodge, Iowa.

With a timid smile, the maid made hand signs motioning me to wait and pointed me to sit on a chair. I sat down and took a look around while nervously waiting. The richness of furniture, furnishings, made me wonder once again if I was right in traveling to Buenos Aires instead of Italy to spend my holidays, something I could still do. Time passed, I checked my watch and saw that it had been over fifteen minutes since I had sat down, and more than thirty minutes since I had rung the bell at the mansion's gates. I decided enough was enough, and as I got up and went to the room door that would take me directly out the house and to the street, another door opened at my back and a voice said, "Sorry to have you waiting, I had been in bed and had to prepare myself to receive visitors, I wasn't expecting anybody."

The voice seemed familiar, but I didn't recognize it, so I turned around and a ghostly figure greeted me. It was my mother, Sophie but instead of the forty three year old beauty she was six months ago in Boston, she looked like a person of sixty-eight. I ran to her and tried to hug her, but her arms remained at her side and she didn't return the hug or the kiss; her skin was as cold as that of death.

"Oh Mother, Mother, oh Sophie, what happened to you? Are you sick, is it something serious?" I asked her, still hugging her emaciated body.

I should clarify the reason for the use of the words 'Mother' and 'Sophie' to address her. I didn't know what to call her at first. When we were practically strangers at the beginning, she asked me to call her 'Sofia', a name I anglicized to 'Sophie'; then she started pushing me to call her 'Mother' when we were well into our sexual relationship. It was a thrill for me to call her 'Mother' when I was fisting the same uterus from where I was born; I don't know it was so ... perverse maybe? I knew it was an incestuous relationship abhorred by the Church and a big part of society, but I later found out it was more common than many people believe.

Afterwards the words 'Mother' and 'Sophie" were intermingled in my mind and had the same meaning to me when we were fucking; they were one and the same person and synonymous to and I used them interchangeably.

She asked the question I knew was coming instead of answering me, but all the naive answers I had flew from my mind, "What brings you here, and in the middle of winter, no less."

"I came to see and be with you, if possible," was my answer.

A torn and cracked laugh came out from inside her throat, "Well, you can see what you did to me, and as for being with me, I thought you were a literature professor, not a registered nurse," as a raspy cough ended her words.

"Oh Mother, Sophie..."

"Sofia, my name here is Sofia," was her cold rebuttal.

"Okay, Sooofia, I love you with all my heart, I..."

"You can't love me, maybe you did lust after me in a perverted way before; do you lust for me now?"

"But that's not true. I did love you and still love you. Why do you think I came here? I was looking for you. I continuously tried to contact you all this time, and you ... you rejected me as you're doing now. I do love you, and how you look doesn't matter to me. I love you as a person and I always will."

I was silently crying and could feel my many tears rolling down my cheeks. We were still standing and I could see she didn't want me there. No hugs, or any other displays of affection, came my way.

"I don't want to tire you; may I come to visit tomorrow or the day after? I really do want to be with you; you know that I love you. I'm in love with you." Mine was a cry, I was desperately trying to break the silence and reestablish the kind of connection we had before.

"Yes, I'm very tired; you'd better go and if you have a phone number, please write it on a paper and I'll give you a call when I feel better." She then rang the bell calling the maid.

"María, por favor acompaña a la señorita, ah, y no estoy para nadie" (Mary, please accompany the lady to the gates, ah, and I'm not in for anybody).

"Si Señora" (yes Madam); and motioned me to follow her with hand signs again.

Once on the wooded street again I was feeling lost as if nothing made any sense anymore. I didn't even know where I was, and I don't mean the streets of Buenos Aires. The world made no sense to me, and I thought I was going crazy for a moment. The earth started to rapidly spin beneath my feet, and an excruciating nausea filled my gut.

I slowly walked to the next avenue to get a taxi and go back to the hotel. I went to my room to wait once there, but wait for what? I didn't know. I knew nothing; my mind was a blur, chaotic, and empty at that moment.

I waited for the phone call that never came for several days. I was lucky a wind and rain storm was unleashed over Buenos Aires during those days that allowed me to be in my room, not catching anyone's attention. I thought and thought about how to take my mother out of the emotional freezer she was in. I couldn't find an answer; who would she talk to if she wouldn't talk to me? The answer was right in front of my nose. Who were her best friends, and almost the only one lately? Maria de las Mercedes Urdangarain, the woman who helped change Sophie's life.

I looked for her phone number and address in the dossier the embassy man had given me; I called Maria de las Mercedes home around noon the next day. It was a wintry day with dark clouds in the skies. I had tried to improve a little my Spanish in the most elementary way during the days I had been in the big splendid city, like asking for directions, for my food, or by asking for a person by phone, so when the maid or whoever she was answered my call, I said, "Quierro hablarr con la signora Maria de las Mercedes, please." I later learned that everyone had fun with my pronunciation of the 'r'; it has a soft sound and is mostly used with only one 'r' in Spanish.

The horrible pronunciation and the English word 'please' at the end aroused Maria's curiosity, and she herself came to answer the phone. In perfect English (every old moneyed person in Argentina has had an education in two or three languages) she asked, "Yes, who's speaking, please?" She had a slight British accent like Sofia.

I answered her "I beg your pardon; my name is Marie, I'm from Boston in the United States, and I know you through your friend, Sofia Petrucci..."

She cut off me to tell me, "Yes, I know where Boston is, but she went to Boston to be with you and she isn't in Buenos Aires. Where are you calling from?"

"I'm calling from my hotel room; it's a local call."

There was a heavy silence on the other side of the line, but I could hear heavy breathing before she softly asked me, "Do you know where she is?"

"Yes, but I can't speak on the phone. I need to talk to you personally and in private."

I almost could hear Maria thinking, and then she said, "You don't know Buenos Aires, do you?"

"No, only just a couple streets around my hotel. You may come here to my room, but I would prefer you do not. I could go any place that's private you decide on, and what I have to tell you may take a couple hours or more."

"So much?" it sounded very formal British.

"Yeah," I sounded, very Midwestern.

"Why don't you come to my home for tea this afternoon?"

"Yes, that would be very convenient."

"Is four thirty alright with you? If so, would you mind taking note of my address?"

She told me the address I have in my dossier. I asked the doorman for a taxi at four. I was dressed in an elegant, but severe, business suit as befits a university professor, and I went to see her who was my only hope of regaining my love, and my love regaining her health.

I won't describe Maria de las Mercedes' home; suffice it to say that Sofia's mansion seemed like a middle class Arkansas farm when compared to it. I rang the bell on the gates at four twenty five on the dot. A doorman rapidly appeared this time and asked for my name. He opened the big latticed gate without a word when I told him who I was, and took me to the house after closing it.

A middle-aged elegant woman, around forty five, was waiting at the mansion door, looking as if she were going to a soirée in La Casa Rosada (The Pink House) seat of the Argentinean government, instead of having the tea with a completely unknown young American woman in her own house. This was the same woman who had first tested and tasted, then aroused Sofia's appetite to be fisted. I should thank her for that. Seeing her so lady-like stance, so above mere mortals, you would never guess the depth of her sexual appetite and the refinement with which she carried it out.

"Please come in. You must be Marie from Boston, welcome; I'm Maria de las Mercedes and very pleased to know you."

"Yes, I come from Boston, and my real name is Maria del Lujan Foster Petrucci..."

A puzzled look, full of confusion, was reflected on my hostesses' aristocratic face for a few seconds, then she put two and two together fast as light, and her face went pale at the implications, "So you are her..."

"Yes, I'm her daughter, her biological daughter..."

A door opened at that moment, and a beautiful woman entered the foyer from the back of the house. She was around thirty, and she should belong in it by her words.

"Excuse me, Maria I didn't know you were with someone; I'll wait for you inside."

"No, no, my dear, come. I want to introduce you to my dear friend Sophia's daughter from the U.S."

"Oh my God, is she..."

"Yes, she is. Let's go to the tea room where it will be quiet enough to speak."

We went to the room without another word. Tea was already served, accompanied by small sandwiches, sweet pastries, and pies all on silver service and cutlery. Once seated around a small table Maria asked, "Has Sofia talked to you about ... us, Marie?

I nodded.

"Well, let me introduce you to Susana, my husband/wife, my lover, and everything in between. Since we're going to talk about what happened between you and your mother in Boston, I want Susana to be here and hear everything you have to say. We have no secrets from each other, and she can help us find a solution to this problem. Do you agree?

I was mute and nodded again. We sipped our tea while I collected my thoughts and thought about how to relate everything that had happened. I decided to use an impersonal method, the same one I use to teach my students about Dante's Inferno in class, so I began to tell the story.

"Maybe you know I was abducted when I was six years old by my own father, an American Embassy official... ," then I proceed to tell them all about my life, my foster parents, Mom and Pop, their home, the little town in the middle of Iowa, my teen years and my problems, my shyness, and the way I looked for and found my sexuality. I talked about Italy, my master's degree in modern Latin languages, and how I'm a professor of literature at Northeastern University in Boston. I stopped to take a sip of tea, and when I looked around, I saw it was already evening since it was almost dark outside.

I excused myself for taking so long, and told them I wouldn't intrude on them anymore. I said that I would be grateful if they would get me a taxi to go to my hotel.

Maria de las Mercedes seemed to come out of a dream with my words. "Are you out of your mind? You're not intruding; we will be served dinner here in fact, and you can continue telling us your story, "Isn't that true, my dear?" she asked Susana.

So with dinner served and the doors locked, I continued telling my story. I told them how Sofia and I had met via the internet. Maria knew this part of the story, but not Susana, so I told it for her, then came the time when Sofia came to Boston to meet me. Maria de las Mercedes then pushed me, "Details, Lady, I want details, a minute by minute account..." Susana who had remained silent until now, with only slight interruptions, interrupted her lover with loving severity this time,

"Be careful, my love, it must be very painful for her to remember this part of her life, and don't forget that we are two strangers to her."

"Yes, you're right, as always. Please tell us what happened and leave out the most intimate aspects of the relationship you may want."

So I did; I told them our Christmas with my parents, and the dreadful noontime she found my father's picture in my dresser. I told them of her reaction when she found out I was her daughter, her rejection of me, and how she had disappeared from my house and my life without even saying goodbye.

The silence could be cut with a knife when I ended my story. I looked at the grandfather clock and saw that it was well past midnight. I tried to get up and get going when Maria de las Mercedes stopped me with a wave of her hand, and turning to Susana said,

"Would you be kind enough to fetch some coffee from the kitchen, my love? I'll look for the cognac; we have things to decide about what we're going to do with Sofia tonight. We can't leave her alone and sick; we need to help her out of that situation, don't you think?"

"Yes, I agree, I'll go and bring the coffee."

With a cup of coffee and a cognac sniffer for each of us, we started to make plans on how to get Sofia out from her emotional morass by reasoning, by helping her to understand her emotions, and not forcing her to do anything that she wasn't willing to. We made and discarded one plan after the other, and we decided in the end that it was best that her old friend, Maria de las Mercedes, should be the one to initiate the rapprochement. As it was more than two hours past midnight, not as late by Buenos Aires habits as I would have the opportunity to learn later, Maria and Susana took her car and drove me to my hotel.

Maria de las Mercedes would go to her friend's house the next morning and begin the psychological work. I would stay on the sidelines while waiting for the results. I met with both Maria and Susana in a luxurious establishment for tea ten days later. It was almost the end of July. The news wasn't good; Sofia slightly recovered physically but not mentally, and didn't want to see me.

My eyes misted at the news, and only a few tears rolled down my cheeks, because I was running out of tears to mourn my lost love as the days went by. Despair became my first name, and Maria de las Mercedes saw with alarm that I was giving up and told me, "Please don't give up yet, Marie; let me try for a few more days."

Sniffling with my tears, I said, "I can't be here forever; I have to return to Boston in a few days. It makes no sense for me to lose my post at Northeastern and my career for nothing. Forgive me; I appreciate everything you and Susana are doing and how good you have been to me."

"What's the last day that you can leave for Boston?"

"I must sign my courses by the tenth of August If I want to get them on the schedule for the next semester, so I must leave on the eight to be on time."

"OK, we have almost two weeks; I'm going to shake Sofia out of her miseries as if a tornado has hit her squarely on the face."

I don't know how she did it, but by the end of the week, Sofia had agreed to go alone with me to the Maria de las Mercedes family's summer house at a seaside resort city called Mar del Plata.

We were in the middle of the winter and it was very cold outside, and in my case inside my body, as well.

It was very cold in Maria de las Mercedes family summer house in Mar del Plata, but the city itself, with only the citizens who live there year round, is very welcoming in spite of the cold. The people are very friendly, as it's their way of life; a seaside resort that lives from tourism, water sports, and theater shows half the year.

Maria de las Mercedes and Susana, who had brought us in their cars, took care of turning the central heating system on, then went to the nearest supermarket and brought us supplies for at least fifteen days, showed us where everything was, said goodbye, and left for Buenos Aires before it was too late in the evening. They took Maria's car and left us Susana's so we had transportation since the house was in a gated country about ten kilometers from the city center. It was an ideal place to reflect on our lives and what we want from life in the future, about who are we, and especially who we want to be. It was a silent place near the sea, with tall pines surrounding the house.

An awkward silence descended upon us when we were alone at last. Only the wind blowing through the trees was felt, so I decided to take the responsibility upon myself to break the ice regarding our situation.