“Oh no!” said Maria Clara shaking her head, laughing with her slightly big and pronounced teeth sparking with saliva. But Virgínia didn’t want to notice them, she was heading toward a conclusion to the feeling, getting upset: not big, she thought hurting herself and observing Vicente’s smiling gaze, but bright, fine. It was horrible to feel that she was so penetrating and to know that if Vicente were not attracted by her existence, she herself, Virgínia, would despise him, happy. If he fled toward that fat woman she wouldn’t suffer and wouldn’t take him back . . . yes, she thought with a disguised surprise, yes, she’d at last be free. If he went to Maria Clara she’d wait suffering and take him back upon his return. She was feeling her unhappiness grow by the instant. At the same time she was smiling as if it were calm to endure it. With a deep feeling of irony that could never rise to her lips as a smile, through a deep feeling of irony and self-martyrdom she thought about the two of them with tenderness, delivering one to the other and at the same time despising them with a sincerity that freed her from them. She wanted to see them together and happy and her repulsion for Vicente grew as he was laughing and smoking at the dinner table — so this was the man with whom . . . She drank a glass of sweet and acid needles that rose through her nose. Drunk, drunk, she was saying to herself with hot shame, smiling now. She was surprised that no wish to do foolish things was coming to her; the most she desired was to say low and mysterious, almost with fury, to all the particles of that warm, intimate, and shining air: farewell, farewell. And in that there was a captive anguish, a dark and opaque blot.
“Thank you, I’ll have another glass . . . ah of course . . . ,” she said shaking her body with the politeness of someone expecting a tip.
“Virgínia,” laughed Vicente, “you don’t think it’s too much . . .”
He had a way of speaking with her in public . . . Clear and cold, for everyone to hear, play a role in and for nothing to be settled between them. Nothing essential had been reached with her love, nothing?! Maria Clara had been possessed by many things, hence her mature and satiated appearance; she’d tried everything lightly, very full, her manner relaxed and tired. But suddenly her face was starting to grow more refined, slightly passive and desperate, very innocent as if it were trying to isolate itself inside itself. Some thought was giving her a surrendered look, her mouth was transforming into an almost-ugly and intimate expression as if she were alone. Yet you couldn’t trust her and be forward because that same gesture was coming together in a calm and free woman who painted flowers on clay pitchers. Maria Clara was laughing, becoming more vulgar, older and more attractive and Virgínia, part serious and part scared, was clinging to the sound of her laughter. She was more and more afraid of growing fascinated by her as she’d been by Daniel in childhood and becoming her slave. Yet Maria Clara wouldn’t even give her orders and needed Virgínia so little that she offended her. With his lips wet with butter her neighbor for the first time spoke to her:
“Beautiful dinner, don’t you think?”
She looked at him fixedly, protractedly, running her eyes over his lips — asked with hardness and rough joy despite having heard:
“What . . .” — but the moment dissolved and she inquired with delicateness — “What?”
Between Adriano’s plate and hers was dangling isolated a green, round pea, greasy. On the lace tablecloth! before she could avoid it she looked at it: was it me or you? she immediately blushed but he, understanding? extended to her the round bread plate — was he forgiving her? but she hadn’t been the one who . . . the pea . . . — and he said to her kindly, yes, kindly with a distant and short appearance:
“Bread?”
Vicente had told her to sit next to Adriano, she wouldn’t need to talk much and she would be well looked after. He’d insisted that she go to the dinner, sent her flowers. But she knew that the insistence was Irene’s or some guest of hers; everything really was going well, the dinner was a success, Irene’s husband was laughing leaning over the table, though the voices sometimes freed themselves far above the harmonious noise of the cutlery and thickened unpleasantly — after the gathering they’d be friendly to each other, grateful because nobody had been offended, no piece of chicken had leapt off the plate, because nobody had eaten to the point of feeling unhappy, only that fullness that a moment longer would be uncomfortable, leaving eyes bleary and afflicted — but no, only the light dizziness nice, nice, nice. How I understand, how I understand everything, she was surprising herself passionate and confused: my God, make me sad — she was feeling her eyes and lips. And in the middle of everything Irene’s power leading herself with a certain anguish above everyone, inquiring rigorously of each face whether everything was all right. That was what was connecting the dinner to the kitchen toward which quick looks from Irene were being directed and where the dinner should be simplifying itself with a yellow light bulb, smoke, a heap of dirty dishes and where the little maid in a stiff rubber apron and cap was losing her impersonality. Oh no! . . . said Maria Clara laughing, one of her hands with its sparkling nails half-raised clutching a cigarette and lightly bending her sweet and ripe body. They were forming a group that understood one another. If one of them would see the drawing of a sad and tired woman with a red dress they’d say with a succinct air: it’s well-drawn. And just like that those men and women were meeting for an instant in that brown room — it occurred to her with a sigh. She said with a clear and pleasant voice — she who was far from the Farm, far from her own birth, swimming in an unfamiliar liquid but swimming:
“Please pass me the olives.”
That’s when things became real. Who’d forced her to speak, who; she could cry scared and tired in that instant because if there were a strange phrase to say it would be: please pass me the olives. Things were fleeing her shining in the distance, the table was glittering in the silverware and the glasses, everyone was bending their heads toward their plates smiling, she exhausted from always smiling lightly without ever releasing a guffaw — her face smooth, large, and blushing. The man across from her was a great journalist, Vicente had said to her, but added: of course, he came as Irene’s friend and not as the director of the newspaper; he wasn’t a great journalist, she was remembering now, he was the director of the newspaper. His face like a shoelace coming undone, Vicente. If Daniel had been there, witty as he had become, was “witty” the right word? she was afraid confused . . . , he’d give an answer: no, it looks like a wound that still hasn’t completely healed. Really, Daniel, when he laughed his features would stretch tightly and you should almost shout: careful, careful. She asked the little maid for water, suddenly life was so natural. Above all there were certain things that when they happened were so powerful that they destroyed their opposites no matter how real those were — was she making herself clear, Vicente? because she couldn’t manage to remember her body before Vicente without guiding herself back to a window at night, unable to sleep. Love had come in a single surge extinguishing the wait. But the power she’d possessed when she was a virgin she’d never have again. At the same time she felt the firm awareness that nothing had changed, nothing. Not exactly that . . . But that Vicente and the city were temporary like the rain that cannot last. She’d like to say it to Vicente, it would be good for him to realize that he hadn’t made her happy — or had he? — and then say: but Virgínia, darling, I don’t want that . . . She’d reply: but I feel so happy suffering for you . . . it’s the most I can do for someone . . . She’d suffered for Daniel, that’s it. The director of the paper had fleshy and eager ears, grossly blossoming beside his face and while he was speaking was pointing his finger at the things that were most impossible to be present. But what was happening?! God Almighty! whatever it was gave her a happiness, she was feeling like a piece of tremulous light, had the deep intuition that it was good to be alive — but whatever it was would end, that sparkling and frozen instant, that moment of a successful dinner party mixed with a calm and warm pleasure
in her stomach, that moment that was bringing together in a compact memory the victorious minutes . . . what was happening?! so what was happening? they were offering her a cigarette and she was tapping it on her other closed hand in a gesture familiar for the others but new, balanced, tensely elegant, and careless for her. Horribly happy is how she was feeling and she was overcoming herself agonizing.
Heavy from fatigue and wine, managing to reach places and situations in stages without union, she stood from the table with the others, heavy with sadness. She looked at Vicente feeling extremely feminine and pensive. His eyes like illuminated walls were darkening but not allowing themselves to be scaled. The way of being with her in public. As if she’d forced him to do something in the past and now it was irremediable, hatefully irremediable — he was rebelling against her as against a family. In mutely violent fury she stared at him detached: what do I have to do with him anyway? don’t I have my own room? don’t I sleep my own nights? The director of the paper stood, the napkin fell, he bent down, stood again, his head hit the edge of the table!, he looked lightly shocked without the least joy with the napkin in his hand, his slack lips shining, everyone watched, talked about different things.
“Ridiculousness is so nice, isn’t it?” she managed with sudden strength to bring herself together with the right words, discreetly elbowing Vicente’s back, feeling again a disturbance that was bringing her extraordinarily close to the fact of being a woman, of having lived, a sensation of herself. — “It’s so nice sometimes, isn’t it?” — the wine was making her light for herself, Vicente looked at her surprised, withdrew his body with delicateness as if he needed to direct it to the chair he was leaning on, maybe she should shake him, say to him: you don’t recognize me, you don’t know who I am, you don’t remember? but he smiled at her a little with his eyes, exactly enough to take away her strength; he’d always make sure “the thing” couldn’t be used; now, after that half-smile, though both knew it was fake, she couldn’t shake him, tell him who she was, not even with a glance; but ridiculousness was funny, Daniel would approve. And she knew how to walk between the beautiful dark furnishings with her white dress, she was understanding them at a glance, seeing with closed eyes her own harmony with things in a perception that was coming from outside in through a grace conceded by strange vibrations. Scanning the room with her eyes it became clear, as if it explained the whole night, it became clear that she didn’t like Adriano; he awoke in her an unease and surprise like the warning you get when faced with an evil nature. He’s my friend, Vicente was saying succinct and curt, interrupting some question that she was posing leaning over him, her eyes blinking in a curiosity that he detested. She didn’t like him. For an amazing reason — she discovered excitedly at that very instant — because he’d been nearby when she’d met Vicente . . . and that had excluded him. But . . . no, no it couldn’t be that . . . But yes, it really was. Sometimes Adriano would help her imperceptibly to live. Across from her, for example, in some mysterious way Vicente seemed to be more interested in her. And Virgínia’s attitude was a difficult understanding of that favor. She looked at him. He himself was cold and delicate — yes, his hands were cold — and was observing her with an attention that nonetheless didn’t wound her. As if for that reason inexplicably when she was with him she emphasized herself rude and ironic trying with a certain astonishment and pleasure to show herself to be worse than she was, chewing with her mouth open at dinner, even like now scratching her head, with a dark joy.
“Your flowers might fall,” he was saying.
“Ah . . . thank you, my dear, Vicente gave them to me.”
“I know. I was with him when they were bought.”
Oh really? and now she was becoming aware that, without Adriano, Vicente would never remember to send flowers. Yes — and she disguised the intensity of her gaze containing herself, red — she needed to establish forever that they couldn’t stand each other. Just as she and Daniel’s wife mustn’t tolerate each other. She stared at him without however managing to contain that bemused impulse that was coming from the little man. Small, clean, and slim he was expanding a dry light around him. He didn’t seem to have come from any place in particular; when he’d say goodbye his hand with bright fingernails would cut invisible connections and when detached he didn’t seem to go exactly anywhere. The little man, she called him. Without being very tall she nonetheless seemed to surpass him and that humiliated her; but he wouldn’t let on that he’d noticed. Instead of sensuality like Vicente — she looked at Vicente who was laughing taking off his glasses and cleaning them with a handkerchief — instead of sensuality he seemed to have a quiet persistence. When they were sitting around a table in a bar he didn’t give the impression of participating but of waiting, without leaning his thin body on the back of the chair, smiling with regular and clean teeth; he’d pay the bill, nobody ever objected, he was rich and above all had something impossible to hold back in his light and direct approaches. He didn’t smoke and drank quickly. With unease Virgínia would watch Vicente let him pay, inviting him whenever they went out — placing the little man between the two tall ones. And above all Vicente’s joyful and voluptuous manner, as if infantilized, when he was with Adriano, making observations and living with buoyancy near the other who would listen without ferocity, watching with that strange absence of confusion of his. What he didn’t have within him was sleep.
Within her was the concern to laugh whenever it was necessary and that gave him an afflicted face like that of a deaf man’s, Adriano was thinking with a painstaking look as if finding something among the sands of the beach; but that difficulty in following the lecture, a tendency toward a certain calm inexpression as if she were then thinking about nothing; the most he could surprise in her was a certain sincerity that was unconscious but not childish; as if she’d long since understood something, already forgotten it but still bore the mark of that understanding; she didn’t know how to talk or explain but nevertheless went around as if she did; so silly at the same time, so in a certain way base; what you’d call a normal person right at the beginning, affected like a silly and normal person; sometimes however a demeanor so profoundly unknown that you barely noticed it, a diluted gesture, a movement in the depth of the sea suspected at the surface. Who? who was thinking? he, he himself — he shivered with a luminous smile, as if resigned, someone just barely awake. Fingernails cut too short resting on the dry whitewash of the wall, the perfect teeth. His fingers were colliding with the halo of the objects and the people. God, give genius to those who need genius — there are so few who need it; he smiled with thin lips, with his bright and delicate health, shaking in his laughter a quality that had never attained the loss of his own being. He was taking pleasure. He looked at Vicente and placed him with his eyes next to Virgínia: above all the gazes of both were of a female and a male of two different species; yet he would never speak to Vicente, that was the quality of friendship that he was dedicating to him with open eyes. His head sharpened, intelligent, fresh, and empty: yes, he might even be able to love her despite her clear insignificance, he thought with a lively air and again was seeking a small sea snail among the sands of the beach. To take her from Vicente would be easy for Vicente, he was reflecting with swiftness and interest as if about a curled and subtle problem, yet she must have the stubbornness of a child. He looked at her with a certain limpid precision as if to compare what he was thinking with the model. What turned him on about her was the vulgarity as the vice is a turn-on in a prostitute, in some way she seemed made of her resemblance to others. Staring at her for a second with wisdom he saw her profile, silly again, a little vain, her chin resting on her chest, and straightening the flowers at her cleavage with both hands. Reality was seeming to laugh at all of them. He was taking pleasure. Her clothes made her ridiculous, recalling a tree covered with fabric, a fruit pricked by a brooch. She didn’t seem to be a woman but to imitate women with care and worry. And she would irritate; but not him, not
him — he was laughing with silent and sharp pleasure. Reality was laughing at all of them. She was arranging the flowers with all her fingers. Her barely-present lips were hiding in shadows born from the position of her head. Her breasts were growing congested squeezed by her clothes, her hips were widening with fatigue, without beauty. He looked at her, her thin head forward, her eyes mobile and swiftly interested with coldness. He closed his lips; with a small effort as in an experiment he could feel a sincere fake cruelty toward her, a certain scorn. Virgínia turned her face and looked at him. He tensed up in his ivory color, surprised in the middle of the game. Both looked at each other for a long time, without interest; the man’s heart rang out heavy, unknown.
The Chandelier Page 10
