With all that has happened lately in Times of Coronavirus, it has been a while since I have written about the Neanderthals, who live in the apartment across the hall for me. Worthy of an anthropological study, they are an endearing couple, who are a monument to past times. Their pristine mindset has been preserved in formaldehyde and still remains as it was in the 1960s.
Over fifty years ago, after seven years of chaste engagement, they married on 8 December, the Day of the Immaculate Conception, which Mrs. Neanderthal regarded as the most suitable day to solemnly surrender her virginity to her newly wedded husband. Since then, they have walked in lockstep through the complicated labyrinth of marital life.
Their three children are living testimony that they finally managed to overcome obstacles such as anatomical fumbling, puritanical modesty, and an embroidered flannel nightgown (as white and voluminous as Moby Dick) to come together in blissful conjugal union, reproduce, and multiply.
The last time I mentioned the Neanderthals was in ‘The Best Laid Plans’ (www.timesofcoronavirus.com). Unfortunately, just after confinement had ended and despite successfully escaping infection, Mrs. Neanderthal fell and broke her hip as she was on her way to visit one of her sons. For many reasons, this was an unmitigated disaster for her and for all of the family.
She was taken to the hospital and given a hip replacement. The operation was a success, and after ten days, she was sent home to convalesce. The doctors affirmed that with a bit of physical therapy, perseverance, and will power on her part, she should eventually be able to stand up and move around with the help of a walker. But this has not as yet happened.
Mrs. Neanderthal, whose pain threshold is so low that a beetle could skateboard over it, claimed that her leg hurt too much and flatly refused to get out of her bed. Her refusal was accompanied by an impressive number of moans, groans, and lamentations interspersed with various theatrical sighs.
This meant that Mr. Neanderthal, who is a retired electrician, was obliged to confront one of the greatest challenges of his life, namely, changing his wife’s diapers. Since he had never changed a diaper in his life, not even those of his own children, this became an insurmountable obstacle.
In fact when our children were babies at both ends of the hallway, Mr. Neanderthal was loath to believe that my husband uncomplainingly changed diapers. Since both men belonged to the same (unevolved) generation of Spanish males, he asked me what I had done to transform my husband into a shamefully diluted version of Celtiberian manhood. I told them that reformatting his hard disk had not been an easy task, but I had managed, thanks to a few devices on display at the Inquisition Torture Exposition in the Palacio de las Gabias.
In a doomed effort to help her parents, the Neanderthal daughter came to visit for a week to give her father a crash course on diaper-changing, but he had little motivation, not to mention a slow learning curve. When I went to visit the Neanderthals, their daughter was at her wits’ end. I took a look at Mrs. Neanderthal lying on the bed in her best imitation of a beached whale, and told them that in my opinion, if they could afford it, the only answer was a nursing home.
My suggestion sent Mrs. Neanderthal into a fit of hysterics for various reasons: (1) Her daughter was abandoning her; (2) She would be sent off in exile to some unknown and strange venue in the middle of nowhere; (3) Her husband would assuredly die of starvation without her to cook for him.
However, my suggestion was the only viable solution, and Mrs. Neanderthal finally went to live in a private nursing home a little outside of town. Since then, I have not been able to see or talk with her because in Times of Coronavirus, nursing homes have become sanitized parallel universes.
Given the extremely high death rate during the first wave of the virus, all personnel now wear protection equipment. PCR tests and masks are obligatory. The premises are periodically disinfected. Visits are restricted to one family member once or twice a week, and when there is an outbreak nearby, sometimes not even that.
For the last few weeks, I had not seen Mr. Neanderthal around the neighborhood either. So, yesterday I knocked on his door to ask how things were going. By his face, I could see that he was not happy. He admitted that at first, his wife’s departure had been a relief because he was finally able to sleep at night without being periodically awakened by her moans and groans. Furthermore, he did not have to worry about changing her diapers and cleaning her.
As expected, at first she had not taken well to her new life. However, now the problem was exactly the opposite. After decades of culinary and domestic servitude to her parents, in-laws, husband, and children, Mrs. Neanderthal has now discovered how delightful it is to be catered to. She does not have to cook or clean. Her meals are served to her, and she has even made a few friends at the nursing home. She feels that at long last, she is receiving the consideration that she so richly deserves.
She is also benefiting from some ‘feel-good’ physiotherapy that does not make her suffer, but which will never make her walk. Evidently, the English expression “no pain, no gain” has not caught on here in Spain. “Sin dolor, no hay beneficio” loses a lot in the translation and does not even rhyme. She enjoys being pushed around in her wheelchair. In short, she has discovered that there is life without Mr. Neanderthal and does not want to return.
So, Mr. Neanderthal is seriously displeased because he is obliged to live on his own, not to mention the added expense of a nursing home. He now must forage for his food in small restaurants though his daughters-in-law occasionally send him pots of stew and soup. But that is hardly the same since Mrs. Neanderthal is an incredibly good cook and could have worked as a chef in a three-star Michelin restaurant.
Again, my advice was requested, and I was asked what he could do to lure her back home. I told him that for every problem there is always a solution, and suggested that he tell her that if she did not return, he would be forced to look for a “querida” to fulfill his “manly needs.”
In Spanish, "querida" is the feminine participle of the verb "querer", which means "to want" (in the sense of desiring). In the bad old days when there was no divorce in Spain, many married men had a “querida”, a light-skirted mistress who would satisfy their sexual cravings since it was impossible for a “good” woman to actually crave, much less enjoy, sex.
In this binary world with no shades of gray, any female who delighted in fornication was not a good woman, but rather a bad one. (Mrs. Neanderthal once proudly informed me that at no time had Mr. Neanderthal ever perceived enjoyment on her part when they were engaged in carnal union.)
Mr. Neanderthal’s eyes lit up when I mentioned a “querida” because as he informed me, he might be old but he certainly is not dead. However, he said that he didn’t have sufficient funds to rent an apartment for a paramour. I told him that I didn’t mean for him to actually go through with the plan. It was only necessary to subtly inform Mrs. Neanderthal (who is a very jealous wife) that she can no longer linger in the nursing home or he might fall prey to temptations of the flesh.
Stay tuned for the next episode.
