The Heat of Betrayal (11 page)

Outpatient Non-Scalpel Deferentectomy
.

What is a deferentectomy?

I switched over to Google and typed in that exact word.

And discovered that a deferentectomy is the clinical term for a very common bit of urological surgery . . . also known as a vasectomy.

And the date on which this Outpatient Non-Scalpel Deferentectomy was performed on my husband? September 7th of last year. Around the same time that we both agreed we should start trying for a child.

I SAT IN
front of my computer screen, trying to convince myself that what I had just read was somehow false. A fabrication; an invention dispatched by a malevolent individual who wanted to see my marriage thrown completely off course.

The problem with hard-and-fast evidence – and an invoice from a doctor in the wake of a surgical procedure is about as irrefutable as it comes – is that you can't negotiate with its black-and-white veracity. It's a bit like a client of mine who had run up around $10k of Internet porn charges on his MasterCard one year. All the transactions were marked Fantasy Promotions Inc., and the time codes showed they were all late in the evening. His wife had seen the MasterCard statements and was just a little appalled. My client entreated me to provide him with an alibi for these purchases. As I told him at the time: ‘How do you explain over one hundred and fifty dealings after midnight with an online company called Fantasy Promotions Inc.? There's no wiggle room here. It's the smoking gun.'

Strange how that client – who was divorced with extreme prejudice by his wife thereafter – popped into my head as I found myself staring at the document from Dr Brian Boyards, MD, Urologist. All the facts in front of me. Facts which I must have reread a dozen times, trying to find a way of reinterpreting the irrefutable:

Patient: Leuen, Paul Edward.

Date of birth: 04-11-56

Home Address: 5165 Albany Avenue, Buffalo, NY 10699

Insurance: Blue Cross/Blue Shield A566902566

Procedure: Outpatient Non-Scalpel Deferentectomy

Date of Procedure: 09-07-14

The seventh of September last year. Around ten months ago. A few days after the Labor Day weekend, which we spent in a friend's cottage in the woods fronting Lake Placid. My husband and I making love twice a day. And me, after a candlelit dinner at some nearby inn, stating that, after two years together, and with my fortieth birthday looming, I wanted to come off the pill . . . though it would be, as my gynaecologist told me, at least two weeks until I would be moving into a fertile cycle.

Paul did not blanch or talk about joining the merchant marine when I brought this up. On the contrary, he told me that having a child together was ‘the essential bonding of a couple in love' or some such rhapsodic line. Back in Buffalo a few days later he returned from the gym one evening limping slightly, telling me how he'd pulled a muscle in his groin and was worried that he'd given himself a hernia. With my complete understanding, he absented himself from sex for several days, saying that he'd be going to the university infirmary the next day to get himself a medical opinion. Then when he got back that night he informed me that, though it was only ‘lightly herniated' – I remember his exact words – he was advised not to exacerbate it and to refrain from sex for another week. Which we dutifully did.

Now, here I was, all these absurd months later, on the website of Dr Brian Boyards, MD, reading all about this seemingly simple, no-fault surgical procedure:

Over 500,000 vasectomy procedures are done each year in the United States.

Vasectomy is a simple, safe surgical procedure for permanent male fertility control. The tube (called a ‘vas') which leads from the testicle is cut and sealed in order to stop sperm from leaving.

The procedure usually takes about 10 to 20 minutes.

Since the procedure simply interrupts the delivery of sperm it does not change hormonal function – leaving sexual drive and potency unaffected.

The No-Scalpel vasectomy is a technique used to do the vasectomy through one single puncture. The puncture is made in the scrotum and requires no suturing or stitches.

The primary difference compared to the conventional vasectomy is that the vas deferens is controlled and grasped by the surgeon in a less traumatic manner. This results in less pain and fewer postoperative complications.

This procedure is done with the aid of a local anaesthetic called ‘Xylocaine' (similar to ‘Novocain').

The actual interruption of the vas which is done with the No-Scalpel technique is identical to the interruption used with conventional techniques.

The No-Scalpel technique is simply a more elegant and less traumatic way for the surgeon to control the vas and proceed with its interruption.

So my husband murdered my chance at motherhood with him by opting for ‘elegant and less traumatic' surgery. The child I so wanted.

I snapped my eyes shut, caught somewhere between desolation and pure unalloyed rage.

‘Tout à fait, nous voudrions un enfant.'

The bastard actually said that at midday today. Just as, for months, he'd kept reassuring me that it was only a matter of time before I got pregnant . . .

I slammed down the lid of my computer and began to sob. I was in free-fall. Beyond stunned. Stupefied. As if this new life we'd built together was nothing more than a house of cards. Built on the lies of a man I had been dumb enough to trust. How could I – Ms Forensic, Ms Extra-Scrupulous, Ms Exhaustively Thorough – not have sniffed out the con behind all his declarations of intimate commitment?

I knew the answer to that question.

We only see what we want to see.

I understood from the outset that Paul Leuen was, on certain fundamental levels, incapable of proper adult responsibility. But I chose to sidestep such realisations and embrace the bohemian lure, the romantic effluence, the hallucinogenic sex. I was so desperate for love that I shoved all doubt into that mental basement room and plunged right into the delusion of domestic bliss and child-rearing with a man who . . .

Who? Who?

Can I even define him now? If he had betrayed me in such a fundamental way, if he had deliberately had himself fixed while assuring me passionately that he wanted a child with me . . .

I went to the bathroom. I threw cold water on my face, avoiding the mirror. I didn't want to cast a cold eye on myself right now. I returned to the room and went out onto the balcony, staring out at the North African world below.
This could have waited until our return, Morton
. But decent rabbinical Morton had, no doubt, done a considerable amount of soul searching before deciding to send me the urologist's invoice. And he had finally decided: cards on the table. But leave it to my disorganised husband to have thrown the doctor's invoice into his box of financial paperwork, forgetting that I would eventually see it – because I was still his accountant.

I clutched the balcony railings, steadying myself, rage trumping sorrow; a certain clinical clarity asserting itself. I returned inside to my laptop. I opened it and wrote a fast email to Morton:

Knowledge, they say, is power. But it's also often a sorrow beyond dreams. Can you please look around his MasterCard statements for September 2014 and see if there is an insurance excess payment for $400 to Dr Brian Boyards. Then scan it to me. I sense I will be back in Buffalo in a matter of days. Alone.

As I awaited a reply I dug out our plane tickets and discovered (through some further searching on the Net) that Royal Air Maroc would change my flight before the return date for a charge of 3,000 dirhams – around $350. Yes, I had paid for the entire month at the hotel, but we were already into the third week. Paul could stay behind and finish his drawings and remind himself what it was like to be alone once more. I was pretty certain that this was the outcome he privately desired. When he'd had his secret vasectomy part of him must have known that all would eventually be revealed. Surely he had to figure that after, say, a year of trying with no success, I'd insist that we go to a fertility clinic for tests. At which point . . .

Bing.
An email from Morton.

Found it. Attached as a scan. I am here for you. Anything I can do, just ask. Courage . . .

I started crying again, and was then interrupted by a light knocking at the door.

‘Go fuck off,' I immediately yelled, certain it was Paul. But why would he knock when he had a key? Instantly I was on my feet heading into the other room and opening the main door to the suite. Outside stood the young girl who cleaned our room and did our washing. She looked ashen and cowed.

‘
Mes excuses, mes excuses,
' I said, taking her hands. ‘
Je suis . . . dévastée
.'

I broke away and went inside, attempting to keep down the new sob that was trying to escape from the back of my throat. Don't break down, don't break down. The young girl was gone from view, no doubt running down the stairs, unnerved and fearful by the sight of this crazy woman in the throes of a nervous collapse.

Back to the bathroom. More water on my face. My eyes were red. So I returned to my desk, fastened my sunglasses on my nose, grabbed my passport, a pad and paper, the printout of my plane ticket, my wallet and credit cards. I stuffed it all into my shoulder bag and headed out the door. On my way downstairs I dug out a 100-dirham note. The young girl was hovering at the bottom of the stairs, clearly uncertain at my approaching presence, wondering what I might pull next.

‘I am so sorry,' I said, thrusting the note into her hand. ‘I received some difficult news today. Please forgive me.'

Her eyes went wide when she saw the sum involved – what Soraya told me was two days' wages – and she whispered:

‘
C'est trop . . . Ce n'est pas nécessaire
. . .'

‘
Si, c'est nécessaire . . . Et merci pour ta gentillesse.
'

‘J'espère que tout ira bien, madame.
'

‘
On verra,
' I said.
We'll see.

And I headed out into the blazing early afternoon.

There was an Internet café two alleyways from the hotel. I walked in and asked the bored-looking guy – mid-twenties, cigarette screwed in one side of his mouth, scatting along to some local pop song – if he had a printer.

The guy pointed to a beat-up machine.

‘Two dirhams per page, ten dirhams for an hour on the computer. You can pay me afterwards.'

The hotel had a printer and computer for guests which I could have used. But I was concerned that, somehow, the documents I'd be printing would be seen or duplicated. I sat down. I went online and printed the medical invoice, the scan of Paul's credit card statement, and all the details from Dr Boyards' website about the non-scalpel vasectomy. Then I crossed over to the Royal Air Maroc website. Using my credit card, I booked myself on the 12 noon direct flight tomorrow from Casablanca to New York. It arrived at 2.55 p.m. (with a five-hour time change). I switched over to the Jet Blue website and found a seat from JFK to Buffalo. There was a final email to Morton:

Arriving tomorrow at 9 p.m. If you could pick me up and get me home that would be a mitzvah. And if you know the name of a good divorce lawyer . . . But more on all that when we meet.

Three minutes later . . .
bing
. . . his reply:

I'll be there and will bring you to E. B. Green's for a sirloin and several needed martinis. Hang tough.

Not only was Morton a great friend; he was also one of the few Jewish accountants I knew who liked to drink. He always liked taking on the role of older brother to me, yet never played the ‘I told you so' card when it came to Paul. I knew, from the outset, that he didn't approve of him, once telling me: ‘As long as you know you're about to marry Vincent van Gogh, my blessings upon you.' But after this single admonition he never said another questioning word about my husband again. Morton knew how desperate I was to have a child. And Paul had promised . . .

I was getting shaky again. Shutting my eyes I willed myself back to an appearance of normality. Standing up and collecting all the documents I had printed, I settled the bill with the pleasantly spacey guy at the desk, watching him take in my distraught state.

‘
Ça va, madame
?' he asked me.

I just shrugged and said:

‘
La vie
.'

I checked my watch. Paul would have been expecting me at Chez Fouad for lunch. Steering myself away from the alleys that passed through the centre of the souk, I took a byway that led to a narrow unpaved thoroughfare and out the main gates. I was bracing myself for the usual vulture-like swoop of the touts who descend on any unsuspecting foreigner (especially a woman alone). But today when one such guy – sweaty, overweight, the usual smarmy ingratiating smile on his face – approached me and said: ‘A camel ride for the beautiful lady?' I simply put up my hand like a traffic cop and barked the one Arabic word: ‘
Imshi
.'
Get lost
. The man looked startled. I felt like an asshole. I raised my sunglasses, showing him my red-from-crying eyes.

‘
Mes excuses, madame
,' he said.

‘
Je m'excuse aussi
,' I said, hurrying off to the bus depot, dodging the women hawking embroidered linen, the little kids selling strings of cheap candy, and a twelve-year-old on a moped who kept yelling: ‘Lady, lady . . .' Reaching the bus depot, I stood in line for around twenty minutes – everyone seemed to be having an extended conversation with the guy in the ticket window. I finally got my chance to speak with him, and discovered that there was a bus early tomorrow morning for Casablanca airport, non-stop, leaving at 6 a.m., arriving there at 9.45. I bought a one-way ticket for 50 dirhams, and was told that I should be here no later than 5.30 a.m.