It took some work, but I managed to get a temporary visa for Devi to enter the United States. Naturally, I was her sponsor. My plan was already being mentally conceived. I was going to ask my unhappy wife for a divorce and marry my new lover ASAP. The dissolution of my old marriage would be a pretty clear signal to INS that I was serious about wedding this Indian girl, not setting out to defraud Uncle Sam.
Inevitably, my colleagues had some reservations. Quite a few thought that she was just a fling or a mail-order bride. The truth was that I loved her and I knew it. She loved me back, which was evident in her attitude toward me. There was no coldness like I experienced with Rebecca.
Devi's parents were another difficulty. They really didn't comprehend the reasons for a prosperous American from New York City to take their daughter, a WAITRESS, for a mate. They barely condoned her liaisons with her cousins, because they assumed that one of them would marry her someday. They were from the same background and family, after all.
Despite all of this, I got her to leave India and found her an apartment near my neighborhood in the Big Apple. I figured that I might need it anyway, after I told Becky that I was about to end our marriage. She might well try to take me to the cleaners. I would fight that, but not to keep the house. She was the one who had wanted the damned money pit in the first place.
Meanwhile, I rented a suite for Devi and myself. I took her to work, pulled some favors to get her a job with the same airline, and spent what free time that I could find making incredible love to my new girlfriend. She had become particularly fond of fucking in the Jacuzzi, which was something that she had never known before in her impoverished life.
I dreaded having to make the final step. As it was, Becky must have suspected my infidelity this time, since I hadn't come home after my return flight. Strangely, though, I got no messages or calls on my cell or work phones. That was odd indeed, even for a cold fish like my wife. It was enough to make a guy paranoid.
Just when I was about to let Becky know what was happening, she finally contacted me.
"Gus, what the hell are you doing there? Are you fucking some slut? I've doubted your fidelity in the past, but I really think that you're cheating now! Can you give me ANY good reason to think otherwise? What are you up to, Gustavo?" she interrogated me.
"To be honest, Becky, I'm leaving you. I want a divorce. There it is. That's why I haven't been back to the house or spoken to you. I've tried to give myself the chutzpah to let you know that it's over. Apparently, I have succeeded. I want to end the legal pretense, which is all we have left of our marriage. You know that it hasn't worked out for us. Stop kidding yourself. We're not a couple. We're just roommates who share a bank account. Well, THIS roommate is calling it quits and cutting his losses," I announced.
"I see. That explains your weird behavior since coming back to the States. I guess it's not really a shock. You've stopped suggesting therapy, asking for sex, and doing anything romantic for me recently. Part of me suspected that you'd given up. I won't lie and say that I'm not angry or hurt. I am BOTH. It's like you were easing out of the marriage once you decided that there was no hope for us. Is that right?" she reacted to my declaration.
:"Pretty much," I agreed.
"I suppose that we should have our lawyers draw this one up as soon as possible. I want to tear off this bandage swiftly, rather than take my time and make it hurt more. Of course, I want the house. Do you object?" she probed me.
"Not really. I never liked it anyway. It's another example of what went wrong with us. You never thought of me as a person. My views on things like houses were just drivel to you. I was merely an ambitious Puerto Rican who couldn't understand things like that. I was only your ticket to the top of society: a future CEO, as far as you were concerned.
"Face it. You're dead inside. I can't stay married to a living corpse, a soulless woman who thinks of nothing but her status and the opinions of her neighbors. It's not just that you're sexually frigid. You're frozen, ice cold in your spirit. There's no kinesis, that is energy, inside you. I wasn't shocked when you proved sterile. How can someone without life inside, without animus or spirit, create or conceive another life?
"It's quite an irony that you focus so much on prolonging your lifespan, when you're already dead in a spiritual sense. No matter how many carrots or protein shakes you consume, or how much time you spend jogging; your existence will kill you.
"I have learned what life really is in Santeria and you're not enjoying it. You're just marking time until death. That's a sure way to an early grave. I don't envy you. Unless you wake up from your self-imposed trance, you will never truly live, just going through the motions.
"Anyway, I just want the bike and my half of the marital assets. I don't think that you'll need alimony with 50% of my wealth. Your lifestyle should be intact until you find some limp Ivy Leaguer who wants a trophy wife. Since we don't have kids, the settlement should be simple and straightforward. Would you agree?" I offered.
"Very well. I don't appreciate your unsolicited critique of my lifestyle, but I'll accept your proposal. After all, I'd much rather have the Volvo than the Harley. I can't say that I understand your interest in motorcycles, anyway. They're too wild for an executive's image. I guess that's not my business now, anymore than what happens to me is yours. I suspect that you have found a new woman, but I won't ask who she is or anything else. Goodbye, Gustavo," she concurred.
"Goodbye, Rebecca," I answered, mercifully not commenting on her suspicion.
