Instagram Husband
First of all, she wasn’t that pretty. I know you have seen the photos, but you don’t really believe everything you see on Instagram, do you? I can tell you how she really looked like, without the arched back and the Facetune and the baby Botox and the lash extensions. She had the bones of a hormone-fed American cow, kept skinny only by hot yoga, spirulina, nature’s cereal and spandex. She didn’t have any secrets, her actions as predictable as her tattoos. She was white, of course, that much is true, so her death was naturally more tragic and heartbreaking. So young, so pretty, so much life ahead of her, such a joy, a free spirit, an adventurer. All because she took pictures in wide hats and flowy dresses in front of the most abused places on Earth, the swing on Bali and the stairs on Santorini and all those sweet geotags, baby.
Correction, I took her photos. I carried the DSLR and the ring light, and the camera bag and the ballgowns she changed into, the ridiculous parody of a peacock showing off its bright feathers for a few minutes. Like all Americans, she was profoundly ignorant, the hot heart of her privilege a burning supernova. She had grown up on plastic and low fat milk, blonde ponytails and suburban sun, and she was dumb.
You might ask why I was with her if I despised her so much, and part of it was inertia. It was convenient: a warm body that requested only the appearances of love. A mechanic sliding in and out of wet grottoes that required no spelunking of the soul. And also, lives become intertwined, the hassle of replacing meaningless friendships and coffee machines too much to bear. Have some compassion, I might have done it at some point. But the blame should not lie at my doorstep. Isn’t it pathetic to accept reheated soup just because it’s there? At least my eyes and ears were fully open. But she refused to see, content with moissanite smiles and words as thin as paper cuts. So yes, I despised her. But I didn’t hate her. There wasn’t enough substance in her to sustain hatred.
And I treated her well, I want to make that crystalline. I dutifully bought her presents from her Amazon wishlist, was called a saint by her friends, smiled to her parents and accepted their awkward hugs and even more awkward gifts at Christmas, fucked her without choking her, remembered her coffee order, despite how embarrassing it was to recite it to Starbucks teenagers. And if I had failed to propose even as she got closer to the end of her twenties, there was still time for a free spirit to get hitched. I am sure she had a Pinterest board ready, dreaming of cake in champagne glasses and Anthropologie bridesmaid dresses in sage or sable or saffron.
So you might say what happened was an accident. It was definitely not planned, not like the trip to India. She had always wanted to go to India, you see. Any travel influencer worth her dime must go to India, and who cares if she wasn’t really making money out of it yet. It was an investment, her graduation ticket into proper travel influencer status. Bali was overripe, Tulum next door, Thai islands too easy. India was the mystery she didn’t have inside her but lusted after, like the milk chocolate she didn’t allow herself to taste. At night, all she would have was a square of frozen dark chocolate, 99% cocoa and no added sugar. But she could have India. Goa, the Golden Triangle, the Taj Mahal where I would maybe pop the question, Delhi belly to fill the authenticity quota on Instagram stories. She didn’t do any research besides locations and outfits for photoshoots, and I didn’t bother to help. I had a fantasy that India would simply swallow her whole, the stench, the crowd, the language, the haze, and she would disappear, melted away by the coal-stained heat and the liquefying intestines full of spicy curry. I simply couldn’t imagine her on the plane back, the inevitable smugness of having done Kundalini yoga, and no matter she knew nothing of Hinduism (be honest, neither do you), the excitement of having survived a Third World country, the pampered skin bereft of calluses, the bindi stain on the forehead, the suitcases full of clothes to wear for an hour at most, the seams already fraying, the polyester smelling atrociously as temperatures rise.
It didn’t matter that we knew nothing about India. Privilege is a hell of a drug, somebody said. I would add that ignorance is the greatest gift privilege gives you. No need to think twice or even once before booking your flights, and conveniently applying for your visa online. Nobody told us, this is what I mean. Not her well-meaning parents, more scared of terrorists storming their small town in North Carolina for inscrutable reasons than of overseas travel. Not the airline or any government officials. You would think it is their job to save us from ourselves, to babysit their dumb children who cherish killing themselves with guns and grease.
So we went to India on our own dime, even if I had wanted a destination with proper toilets, and she pretended it was a comped trip. The food, the dirt, the poor. Not my scene, one could say. I had a feeling Old Europe would understand me better than she ever could. I actually read books, you see.
But, of course, I went, willing to wake up before dawn to get the required photos without crowds too hard to photoshop away. The sheer mass of people, Jesus. Too many, I truly understood how you can simply suffocate in a crowd, unnoticed, a lonely sperm in a warm, soupy primordial multitude too slow to escape.
I think she was shocked too. Oh yes, there were the promised colors, and the majesty of Agra fort and Jaipur, the oranges and terracottas, the smell of spices, sweat, and shit, the heat frizzling, us American beef exuding salty fat instead of water on the grill.
The beauty was immense, and so was the disgust. But more than everything else, the mystery ran deep. I think this is why many Americans hate other countries, their bones old and frail, the map of their skin mottled by disease and stories. We have killed our mystery, and poured concrete on top of it. This is also why we rage at the idea of having built our parking lot on blood and bones, something everybody else is more or less comfortable with.
India didn’t hide its blood and bones, both the old and the new, death stuck in your throat with the pollution and the colonialism.
By all accounts, despite her unease (and mine, if I have to be honest), the trip was a success. Her Instagram followers, both fake and real, loved the photos and the captions full of gushing and spellcheck, and the numbers grew every time we posted a new saturated image or a TikTok ripoff. I will never stop to be surprised by how we all want the comfort of repetition, the same color, poses, and places as everybody else, hundreds of women a patchwork of femininity and blandness like a good ´50s housewife. Never an opinion, but #keepingitreal.
It actually took longer than I had expected, almost three months after we had come back. India had somehow made her less insufferable, almost enough to make me sorry. It could be it was impossible to escape unscathed, even for her, the spectacle of India a tapeworm in her brain, burrowing slowly and making her uneasy as it went on eating neurons and neuroses. More likely, she was buttering me up so that I would finally hurry up and pop her engagement cherry.
But when she told me she was feeling unwell, on the verge of a hiking trip I didn’t really want to go on, I felt secretly optimistic. Maybe this was it. There had been a few false alarms and I didn’t want to rejoice just in case, but it felt good. The fever, the headache. I was a very attentive boyfriend and brought her ginger and lemon tea. I even secretly added a sugar lump, now that it might not matter anymore. Our dog, a French bulldog named Lou, sat on the blanket next to her and farted, a sure sign of affection. Lou had been her idea, she was such an animal lover, and she loved dogs. Enough to buy a flat-faced one from a breeder.
She talked with her mom on the phone, everything was fine. But I knew, the only mystery I could ever aspire to in this land without history, and it tasted like fresh mangoes, the real deal I ate in the Philippines. Overwhelmingly sweet, with just a hint of tart.
A few days later, she was confused, drooling, scared of dark things in the corner I couldn’t see. She had not slept and was anxious and incoherent, and when I brought her a glass of water she refused it and spilled it on the bed, spasms already strong. I knew then. It was time and I called the hospital. I didn’t want her to suffer, and I hoped it would be quick, but she was conscious until the end. She kept asking me what was wrong.
She died six days later, after experiencing psychosis, delirium, and then a blissful coma. So much saliva, a river with no dam. By the end she had very little resemblance to what she once was, a scared animal was all that was left. I was with her the whole time, her parents baffled, the doctors secretly excited under the mask of concern. I knew there was no cure and the doctors knew it would be their only chance to ever see it in person, so everybody got something out of it in the end. She also got famous at last, wouldn’t you say I was generous? Even if it was as a Wikipedia entry and Fox News instead of snark forums.
Nobody could blame me, but of course I blamed myself, crying over her mother’s shoulder. She hadn’t even said anything to her followers, it was such a small thing, and she quickly forgot it.
It was very lucky, not a big enough deal to warrant a visit to the doctor, and we were on our way to a photoshoot so no time to stop. I even had hand sanitizer with me. Please don’t think me a showoff, but the photos were beautiful. I have to admit, it was worth waking up early to avoid the tourists.
It wasn’t poison, of course. I am not an idiot. And it wasn’t premeditated, I want you to understand that. I just bothered to read a guide book on the plane.
And I told you she loved dogs.
I just kept quiet when she petted one too many. Those Delhi dogs, very friendly, love a good rub. But at least one might bite, I hoped.
And one did.
Erica Terranova is an Italian writer living in Finland. She mostly writes in her native language, but this story wanted to come out at all costs (the only form of giving birth she would ever consider). She loves least weasels, opera, classic Gothic literature, and matcha.
