“Today you are evanescent . . . ,” Adriano said to her smiling with a cold and smooth look as if he were forced to say it. Vicente was smiling, the lights were smiling, the illuminated sidewalks were smiling, Virgínia was smiling.
“She was sick, weren’t you, Virgínia?”
“You know how it is,” she responded, “a little sickness here, another there . . . that’s how you go on living,” she concluded with a too-big smile, she pursed her lips, they were watching in silence.
Although at the moment of the meeting it hadn’t even existed . . . “that” — what Adriano had just said — had made something unfold inside her and join the care with which she’d dressed and “that” would live for the rest of the night even after the flowers withered. It was what she was needing to get through the night of the dinner — she didn’t know what she was thinking while drinking with the two men one warm glass and another cold one of alcohol, doing it again before going up, and telling herself: yes, yes. After shaking hands with all the guests and smiling she was forced by the gaze of the guests not to refuse a jaunt to Irene’s toilette. In order to straighten out mysteriously feminine things — they were being allowed and didn’t look at her as she did so that she’d feel comfortable. Timidly she was accepting, almost fat, even if Irene were quite busy to take her there herself and Irene’s husband was bringing her to the bedroom down a long hallway where not a single word would sound between them. Make yourself comfortable, make yourself comfortable, the flustered man was murmuring as he hesitated between leaving or saying a few more words, maybe a joke about something. In a corner of the room a lamp was burning, white, and making flutter across the walls and ceiling circles of soft light and shadow, wispy colorless veils; above the headboard of the bed a Christ with dry wounds was hanging, tired. She took off her hat, her head looked naked and poor, her hair lifeless. Yes, she was saying with a murky ardor. She looked at herself in the mirror of the dressing table: where, where was her warm power from the instant of the meeting? she was combing her hair. But there really was — she insisted almost despondent — yes, almost fainting, glimmering from the depths of a face that was still as serious and offended as a girl’s. Again the old idea attacked her, so vague and swirling, and that wasn’t exactly the one that should be being born but another, small and too difficult to think:
“I hold myself back in order not to be loved by everyone.”
That wasn’t it! that wasn’t it! the feeling that followed was as good as if she’d said what she didn’t even know how to think and even feel. But with her eyes half-open and a constant desire she could see herself like veils heaped under lights before the start of a waltz — though she’d grown so much, her movements reflected, and the fear of the clean evening returning, sad or happy and a certain way of seeing returning in which she could sometimes fall not knowing how to take on a false demeanor among the unknown people, unable to steal away like dormant flowers nonetheless giving off perfume uselessly, seeing and hearing everything, mingling and wandering bemused. She mustered a little courage straightening her body and falsely giving it a quicker movement that sounded too alive in the empty room. She headed to the living room. She sliced through that dining room quietly lit by a single pale color, whitish and gold, that was existing solidly beneath the sweet cold dust. She lost her urge — she’d always felt like a prisoner of luxury, of those shining surfaces, shifting and hostile. She stopped watchful. The silence was holding itself back in the set table. Coming from a world not as clean as this one a fly or two was flying over the placid and sparkling plates. A stopped smile was settling over the entire room as if it were so stretched out that it had lost meaning and were just its own reminiscence. Virgínia was floating between the table, the air, and her own body fluttering in search — so indecipherable was that party silence. Don’t forget, don’t forget, she was thinking distractedly observing as if she were about to leave and needed to tell what she was seeing. Also because she was feeling that the alcohol would abbreviate the memory of those instants. She extended her lightly drunken hands in an attempt at tenderness. Without knowing why, surprised and delighted, she was feeling herself on the verge of a revelation. Don’t forget . . . A halo of pale excitement was shining around the ferociously blazing lights, the lamps burning themselves with pleasure, bloodless. Don’t forget. In a glacial and sleek blink a glass existed for a moment and extinguished itself forever in the watchful silence of the china cabinet. She attempted once more an ordinary gesture; she managed to extend her fingers lightly, achieved nothing, retreated. Since what could she do in relation to that world? the two drinks were warming her, wrapping her in a faint bodily fatigue while her lucid eyes were noticing. She was feeling foreign to that milieu but was guessing that she was subordinated to it by fascination and humility. In a few short minutes she would enter the living room by destiny and everyone would not see her while smiling at her for a second. How to free oneself? not to free oneself from something but just free oneself because she wouldn’t be able to say from what. She not-thought for an instant, her head bent. She took a napkin, a bread roll . . . with an extraordinary effort, breaking in herself a stupefied resistance, deflecting destiny, she threw them out the window — and in that way kept her power. One day when she was small the teacher had sent her to get a glass of water for a visitor — she, who sat in the back row, the never-chosen one! She’d gone trembling with pride but on the way back, gripping with care her prize, not out of revenge, not out of anger, she had spit in the water keeping her own power. What else? she was seeking while smiling, her eyes shining with warm love because without assistants she was feeling harmonious and powerful in that live, calm room. What else? she was pushing her drunkenness with sweetness. A wine glass was shuddering in still sparks, its crystal connecting nervous and ardent to the light of the lamps. She stretched out her small hands, so damp, took it delicately as if it were electric in its fragility; intensely slow she let it fall out the window shattering in herself the resistance of her life; she heard its shards singing rapidly alongside the distant cement. Frightened she listened for an instant to the room where Irene’s guests were gathered: nobody had heard and the cheerful murmuring kept going in a single whirl; no maid was turning up. So it had really been her?! Her own courage made her heart beat outside the subtle rhythm of the crystals. Again the un-confessable sensation that she herself was creating the moment that kept coming . . . And that she could stop the flow of the other instants with a small movement all her own, controlled: don’t enter the living room! Destroying the glass had nothing to do with her past, with the time that was running out, it was an instant above her own life — she was strangely noticing what she was thinking as in one of those pale and silly memories of things that don’t exist. Above all because she was separated from herself by two delicate glasses of drink. But she already knew this: that it was always too late in order to not enter the room.
And what she knew within undeniable reality is that, now, sitting with everyone on the sofas, she was saying: ah yes!, I think so too, thanks, smiling, seeing Vicente tall, strong, and friendly curiously living independent of her, feeling in her legs a benevolent heat; and where, where was her sweet power? now she was feeling inside herself a metallic and harsh insect, of stinging flight. And where was her own brand on Vicente’s face; one of the guests was saying while smoking:
“. . . and it was at that same time that I read The Problem of . . .”
. . . she in vain sought some spot in her body that might attest to the reading of The Problem of . . . And inside herself — who would have thought that that insignificant creature had just felt like someone who had to hold herself back in order not to be loved by everyone? and who would have thought that the white dress, the dinner, the flowers were a high point in her days. She was paying attention to the conversations trying now to show that she was intelligent and different. What was enriching her was knowing obscurely that by saying: “it was I who did” instead o
f “it was me who did” would impede intimacy, earn a certain calm way of being looked at. She was feeling indecisive among all those people who were so natural, so well-dressed, their teeth shining. Sometimes she would remember herself dressed in white and in a light stiffening she’d straighten up; that was the most intimate sensation of the party. She was also remembering the Farm, her unkempt mother walking through the middle of the house with neither pleasure nor strength. She was remembering Esmeralda with her fancy clothes, her eyes tender and impatient. Her father, silent, dominating the house and unheeded, going up the stairs. And Daniel now, how to recall him? it was darkened inside him the way she would look at him. She was remembering the days spent in the small apartment, that familiar feeling of tired and expectant misery that she in an end-point of degradation was coming to love getting emotional.
The door opened once again and Maria Clara entered.
The furniture was becoming intelligible, the arrangement of the greenish room quaked beneath the light, a vase of flowers began — even those who were still seated were headed in her direction. What was making her difficult was the crystalline part of her body: her eyes, her saliva, her hair, her teeth and dry nails that were sparkling and isolating. Maria Clara was drinking, her lips blood-red and opaque, the cold shine on her skin and her silken neck; she was greeting people with a half-smile, her pupils open without fear. In Vincent’s pupils the smiling black was always mixed with a certain haste — nothing essential had been attained with his love . . . — that was the impression. Yet he was laughing through his eyeglasses like a grown-up student. Maria Clara’s pink camel-hair dress was reminding her of a motionless river and the motionless leaves of engravings. With a movement of her leg, with the breathing of her breasts the river would move, the leaves flutter. How clean and brushed she was. Except unlike the other women she was forgetting that she’d put on perfume and done her hair and like a child was playing without worrying about getting dirty. Her intimacy was rich and impassable, a secret life filled with details, whereas Virgínia could almost live publicly, beneath a tree. With Virgínia you’d never risk overstepping boundaries and ridiculously trespassing over what was permitted — her intimacy even if violated didn’t seem to be possessed, useless to inhale her perfume, see her clean underwear, watch her bathe; only she herself would use her surroundings. Poor Esmeralda, embroidering chambray trousers, burning perfumes in her bedroom, her body exacerbated like a lemon — her femininity was almost repugnant to another woman. Whereas Maria Clara had more humid thoughts, she kept that mysterious and dry quality, clear as a number. It was horrible to feel how nice she was. Pretty, mutable, weak, intelligent, understanding, brutish, selfish, there was no point pretending she wasn’t lovely, she would penetrate in your heart like a sweet knife. The thin, confident women were chatting — they seemed easy for the men and hard for the women; and why didn’t they have kids? my God, how disconcerting that was. And if they did they treated them like friends, yes, like friends. She remembered that one day she’d seen Irene at the entrance to a cinema with her son, yes, yes, now she was remembering. He was a red-headed, thin boy, the kind who didn’t get surprised and who’d be joyful and hapless when he was a teenager. But you aren’t unlikable either, honey. She was surprised by the worn-out affection and was touched in her solitude almost to the point of crying. She was careful nevertheless with a fearful self-confidence never to go beyond certain liberties with herself because whatever there was that remained unexplored could lead her to lose her good sense forever. Maria Clara had sat down drinking and smoking in her motionless dress: it was of an ardent pink burning itself in its own color; yet in a certain light it would turn off and emerge dead, stretched, almost cold in its calm, flat tones — meanwhile Virgínia was waiting in her white dress with its little buttons and the couple’s son was showing up before going to sleep, Irene shining in black silk, his watchful well-groomed lamb’s face; she was leading him by the hand dressed as if by chance in pajamas of striped silk, his red hair in a tall pile above his narrow, pale, and weakly smiling face.
“Ernesto, Ernesto, come here,” said the director of the newspaper’s voice.
The child approached, the man seated on the armchair reached the edge, encircled the thin waist of the boy who was still smiling. The thick and hairy hand of the man was making pleats of silk on Ernesto’s bent body, everyone seated was doing nothing in the green room, smiling, watching. Everyone was waiting to say something funny and didn’t know what, they were waiting seated.
“Ernesto,” the director of the newspaper said at last leisurely, “do you know about the importance of being Ernesto?”
The boy was smiling vaguely in reply looking at the wall behind the man, everyone laughed discreetly, a few closed their eyes, quaking. Irene was wanting somehow to thank him, was laughing louder; afraid the newspaper director would think he hadn’t been understood, she said disappointed at the end of a fake and tender laugh:
“Oscar Wilde. . .”
The director of the newspaper fell silent but his eyes still resting on Ernesto transformed imperceptibly, froze in order to reveal nothing. Ernesto was smiling. The room was suddenly decaying like face powder toasting the skin, eyesight tiring, the lamp losing strength — Irene had a hurried movement:
“Say good night to everyone, Ernesto!”
Without pleasure everyone squeezed Ernesto’s warm little hand as he was smiling and stopping in the middle of the room without knowing what to do next. His wide eyes were blinking, serious by now.
“So?” asked Irene laughing with irritation.
The boy looked at her, said inexplicably, out loud:
“Yes . . .” — a kind of red splotch arose around one eye, Irene slightly defenseless observed the dark stain; she was seeming to seek the most humble guest in search of support, said with a difficult smile to Virgínia:
“He’s sometimes so sensitive.”
“Yes, yes,” said Virgínia laughing too much.
“Say good night to everyone now!” repeated Irene feeling that everything had been lost. The abandoned boy was insisting on looking at them waiting. So funny, said the fattest woman. His father, between the director of the newspaper and Vicente, tall, was watching the scene with quick and anguished eyes, Irene was looking for him for a second, the family was coming undone in front of the guests. Irene pushed the child sweetly out of the room. When Ernesto disappeared she turned around, straightened herself up by smoothing the dress over her thin and suddenly inelegant body; everyone was seeming to demand the conclusion, she laughed, said loudly in an appeal: he was tired . . . Ah, yes, of course, naturally, some voices said quickly. The drinks were preventing her from letting the events connect to one another by visible paths but made them follow one another in soft, oblivious, tepidly doomed jumps. She shouldn’t drink, she’d fainted today, it could happen again — and as if fainting had a secret meaning, she couldn’t stand passing out if she wasn’t alone; and returning from the dizziness opening her eyes and not understanding. And so, all of a sudden there they were in the dining room near the ridiculous table, entirely square atop fat bow legs. And one of the women, astute, daringly alive, threw a quick arrow in her direction:
“And your brother? your nice Daniel?”
But before she could finish opening her mouth in a smile, someone replied for her and her mouth once again closed in a smile. Someone was adding: he got married so long ago, my God! with a girl from a fine family. She wasn’t needing to talk much, she’d only been invited because of Vicente. Nobody was expecting anything from her body except for it to eat discreetly using the napkin, smiling. Nice Daniel. So the way she liked him surpassed her powers with difficulty and pain. What she desired with her uniform, ardent, and martyred heart was to die before he did, never to witness him losing the world, never, never, my God — she was looking at a spot on the wall with glassy and luminous eyes. And suddenly she felt frozen and brutish: and if he were d
ying now? why not, idiot?! can’t anything happen? it can, yes it can, idiot! she stopped short stiff, squeezed her heart with both hands looking toward any spot with care and delicateness. Hearing the sounds around her she was aware that if she started suffering they would all dangerously take their distance running, eating and laughing, forever far in a warm hallucination, intangible. She was waiting. From the soft noise itself was coming a dizzy and confused feeling that present life was greater than death and each instant that went by without bringing it was laughing out of fear — almost pacified, afraid, she was drinking a bit of wine: he was alive. He was alive. And he was so brave. He wouldn’t do anything but he was brave like a demon, like a conqueror. He would never bother to save, maybe, even a child but he was generous just as she would live even without bothering. And so proud . . . there was not one thing he didn’t think he could do but by some mysterious force he wouldn’t do anything. She saw across from her one of the faces of such rich vulgarity, loud lipstick on pale skin, a sensual and quick understanding. Everyone had already known one another for a long time and was talking without interruption at a medium pitch. How easy everything is with drink, Vicente — otherwise how could she be doing so well, feeling the shine of her own eyes floating between her and other objects? an almost indecent impression in her legs sweetened by wine. They were living off the knowledge they had, using whatever could be used. Irene was shimmering above the dark fabric, her husband’s bald spot was happy to ask: aren’t you feeling a draft?, though a bit sad, Irene was attentive, eager, lively, and tough with her short hair whereas he was more made of people. All his life he must have been a son, a brother. And now a father. All of them, including the women, had some specialty in their character, their past or their job — and it was through that specialty that they were addressing one another and laughing. They were speaking about their own difficulties with pleasure. Only Maria Clara, whose stories she would be happy to hear, wasn’t referring to her job of painting flowers on clay pitchers and exhibiting them in salons where she invited friends, only Maria Clara with her slightly wide face, the broad circles of the lilac, painless bags under her eyes, was smoking even at table, damp teeth on display. Vicente, where’s Vicente?! like a child who wakes up in the night sitting in the dark, calling mommy, mommy, scratching its body with sleepy hands. There he was! he was embarrassed by her not being like him, ah mystery — Vicente headed toward Irene’s body and Maria Clara with that controlled reverence used with women not yet possessed: a respect, Virgínia was thinking absorbed, as if he thought that possessing them made them unworthy. But no, no: the same word that now had almost been spoken inside her, mystery, would explain it. Feminine mystery, mystery of a woman whose son in the striped pajamas was now sleeping, mystery of a woman who without such shiny lipstick might not be able to laugh out loud throwing her smooth head back in a laugh or in a fatigue — and while her head was still thrown back and her throat was shuddering in laughter, her eyes surely were starting to think about something else that certainly was far away because she would cock an almost tense ear in space. Without preventing her laughter from reaching its own conclusion:
The Chandelier Page 9
