You Ask Too Much Of Me: Part Two

“Are you calling me inhumane?” He snapped, “Not everything needs to be about gender, ok? Enough.”

Mid-June. Early summer. Leandro was in that delicious, frenzied writing stage that came whenever he finally pushed beyond the membrane of procrastination, and his brain at last woke up. The book proposal was only third of the way done, and he was getting a little too close to the deadline. He’d been messaging his literary agent about it, full of promises he knew that this time he was going to keep. Once he’d explained his idea, set out the premise, he’d heard the sudden, savage interest in Michael’s voice. A possible money-maker for the science community - book tours, science festivals, write ups in the Guardian and the New York Times. Of course, his agent had suddenly started answering his emails again.

He was on the verge of a perfect sentence when the front door burst open, startling him. The thought evaporated and Leandro was instantly irritated. He heard Xiomara drop her bag and rounded the corner without even taking her shoes off. There was a look on her face that alarmed him, pulled the taste of fear from his throat to his teeth and he stood up. She looked like she’d just been slapped in the face.

“Are you ok?”

“I won.” Xiomara said, her voice shaking. They rarely spoke English at home, but in her excitement she didn’t notice. “I won!”

Leandro didn’t get it. “…you won?”

“The - my paper - the Carter-Hewitt Prize – my paper that Brown submitted! I just got the call - came running home to tell you.” Tears were gathering in Xiomara’s wide, black eyes. “I thought they were joking at first!” She raised her arms, palms facing upwards like she was in a lecture and let out a loud whoop. “I can’t believe I won!”

It took him a few seconds to register the enormity of what Xiomara was saying. The first Latin American – the first woman – possibly even the first mycologist to win the most prestigious prize in the world for biological sciences. When the news broke, his book was going to pale in comparison to this. He felt like the bottom of his stomach had just fallen out.

“…. photographer coming by towards the end of the week!” Xiomara was saying, her voice muffled as she bent over the laces on her oxfords. “And the money!” She straightened up and her face was glowing. “We can finally buy a place on Montauk, or somewhere around there, with a studio, for me to paint, and an office for you! Our dream!”

Another blow. He’d forgotten that the Carter-Hewitt came with a million dollars of prize money. A million. And that wasn’t even part of the research grant she would also receive. There was too much saliva in his mouth, and he could hear his own heartbeat. Leandro took a deep breath, his wife waiting expectantly. He needed to react, to congratulate her, and he forced his mouth into a smile. What he should have said was, of course you won, you incredible woman. I never doubted you for a second! This is lifechanging! You’ve made history! I love you! I’m so proud of you!

But what came out of his mouth was, “I didn’t even know you were in the running.”

It wasn’t even true. He’d just forgotten, and a cold wave of regret hit him as the smile was wiped off her face and replaced with hurt. “I told you the second I made the longlist.” Xiomara said quietly. “Remember? Just a week before we moved here, at Susan’s Diner on Broad Street.”

“Right, right!” He shook his head and guiltily tried to claw back her excitement, aware now of the tension settling into the room like a fine layer of dust. “I’m so sorry Xi, I had my head deep in my writing and I needed a moment there.” He pushed his chair away from the desk and came round to meet her, pulling her into a hug.

“This is incredible news! I’m so proud of you – you’ve made history! The first woman to win! How did they tell you?”

“They called me.” To Leandro’s relief, she returned his embrace, although her joy was a little muted now. “I’m the only Latina too. There’s going to be a press release later this week, they’re sorting a photographer out as we speak.” She pulled back and there were tears in her eyes. “This changes everything Leo. This is the biggest moment of my career. I never thought –” She stopped, took a shuddering breath, and he embraced her again, kissing the top of her head.

In one afternoon, he’d lost control. Power, money, fame, respect, Xiomara was going to have more of that than she’d ever anticipated in her life. And Leandro was going to be forever relegated to ‘husband of’. His theory seemed pathetic now. It would probably never make the kind of splash Xiomara’s work would. He knew it was the very worst of him coming out in full force, but Leandro was consumed by jealousy. Her success was his failure, her joy his rage. No one had put him up for consideration for the Carter-Hewitt. His work was good – better than hers probably – and yet frustratingly ignored. It infuriated him.

And that was why, when Xiomara returned to Magdalene college, he sat back down at his laptop and started aimlessly reading the news, looking for distraction. His email pinged – a message from her.

Some of my colleagues here are bringing champagne and cake after last lectures – and dinner at The Mayfair. You’re invited too of course! At six, buzz me at the intercom and I come let you in.

Leandro stared at the email for a long while. Directly underneath it, yet another advert for the Mayzee flashed at him.

MAYZEE HELPS YOU FEEL IN CONTROL – AT HOME, AND IN LIFE. WHY WAIT?

He paid for next day delivery. A Saturday.

The Mayzee arrived during breakfast. Xiomara had pulled two spoons from the fridge and was pressing them to her forehead, an old hangover method she hadn’t deployed in almost two decades. The guilt eating up his insides had pushed Leandro to make them breakfast; bacon, freshly buttered rolls, chopped fruit and Xi’s beloved pao de queijo with black coffee. She was nibbling on a roll, squinting at him.

“Should you be eating right now?”

“I feel better. Better than you, anyway!” Leandro had not joined her last night, opting to fake a stomach bug. He’d been unable to face her colleagues, flushed with the self-importance of being Cambridge scholars like they even compared to the kind of academic rigour prized at Brown. Or to his wife, who had degrees in multiple languages. Or Harvard, his alma mater. But part of him wished he had, to catch a glimmer of his wife from her wilder days, a time when he was less threatened and more in awe of her, and perhaps he could have shaken off some of the hardness in his throat.

“My god.” Xiomara groaned softly in Portuguese. “I had a great night, but it was not worth this.” She winced as the doorbell rang and Leandro stood immediately to answer it, a small flutter of excitement at a new, shiny distraction. Usually it was books; he and Xi were both joked about being as bad as the other, stockpiling books they had every intention to read but never quite got round to it. He always gravitated towards the formulaic murder mysteries, ‘holiday books’ as his wife called them. She usually went for the women’s fiction prize winners, buying the entire shortlist in one sitting and then letting the dust gather on their pages.

Leandro took the box – unexpectedly heavy - from the courier’s outstretched hands with a nod of thanks and placed it carefully down on the kitchen table between them. As he sliced through the cardboard with cooking scissors, she lifted her head and watched him with mild interest.

“’The Mayzee?’ What is it?”

“A home virtual assistant.” Leandro replied, not meeting her eye. “To help with research.”

“Oh.” She watched in silence for a moment as he lifted the tear-drop shaped gadget out of the styrofoam packaging and turned it over in his hands, running his fingers over the smooth chrome and feeling the tiny holes of her speakers. He knew it was ridiculous, but the thought of being able to order her around was already lifting his mood. A well-behaved virtual assistant, programmed to make him feel in charge. Leandro finally looked up at Xiomara, flashing her a wink, and she lowered the spoons from her face. He could tell she was trying her best to remain neutral, engaged, even though they both knew what was coming.

"So…what does it do?”

“She’s an information hub. She’ll do whatever I ask her to – tell me the weather, email you, look up anything I want about Hirudinea, source articles I don’t know exist. You can set her up to turn the lights on and off and all that nonsense, but I’m mostly interested in using her for the research. I’ve got a lot of work to do.”

Xiomara raised her eyebrows. “She?”

“Mayzee. It. Whatever.”

“I’m glad you have something to help you, I really am. But what about hiring a grad student instead? Someone from the university? Surely that would be more useful to you. You know the problem with those things, right?”

“Hmm?” Pretending not to listen, Leandro began to rummage through the plastic wrap and packaging peanuts, looking for the user manual. It was sellotaped to the bottom of the box, and as he pulled it out, Xiomara took a deep breath.

“You know virtual tech, even AI, has sexism coded into it, don’t you?” She said quietly. “The default female voice? The submissive promise of doing everything you want as soon as you want it? The way it’s designed for you to bark orders at it, like a dehumanised version of a secretary?”

“You can change the voice to a man if you want to.” This was a half-lie. Mayzee’s voice was female and that wasn’t a setting Leandro could change. But the Siri on his wife’s phone for example, was a man’s voice. He’d watched her change it.

“That’s not really the point. Why would you buy something that encourages this stereotype of a docile, well-behaved woman whose sole purpose is to attend to your every need, when you could just pay a young woman or a young man to work with you, and treat them humanely instead?

At this Leandro felt irritation rise like a fever. “Are you calling me inhumane?” He snapped, “Not everything needs to be about gender, ok? Enough.”

Xiomara was silent for a moment and then stood up. “There was a time where we could question each other’s choices in good faith, without it being seen as an attack. Of course I don’t think you’re inhumane.” She said stiffly, then glanced out of the window at the overcast sky, “I am going for a walk before it rains.”

He knew she hadn’t slammed the door on her way out, but the sharpness of the silence that followed made it feel like she had.