“Sir, you’re not avoiding your duty?”
“No,” he assured her. “What I have to do is stay in the building. And anyway who’s going to need information at this hour . . .”
“But the door . . .”
“No, the door is already closed. The only people who come in are the tenants and they have the key to come in and out.”
She would sigh. She’d tell him a bit about Daniel, about the Farm, about people, like Vicente, that she barely knew.
“Do you think your brother gets along well with his wife . . . ,” he was doubting, seriously, without meaning to offend. “Those rushed marriages. Marriage isn’t a game — lots of people think so but it isn’t.”
He would go to Protestant services; since he was vain and lowly he’d seek out the pastor after the sermons, ask him useless questions, attach himself to him with a proud seriousness. The pastor advised him to read a small section of the Bible every night and meditate. Filled with an unsmiling joy he bought a small used Bible, brought it to the lobby. At home he read nothing, he couldn’t manage to be interested in the same things and was sincerely ready to laugh with everyone else at questions of preaching. The isolated life on the lobby stool, the immobility of his arms eventually made him an irritated and ardent man. He’d never wanted to accuse so much, never given alms so full of mindfulness and caution. But with a slow surprise he had discovered his impossibility to concentrate and read the Bible so easily acquired. Every night, forewarned, he would sit on the backless bench, beneath the lamp of the counter. He’d run his finger over his tongue, turn the pages of the book, begin. Eventually his reading would be limited to looking at letters and the Bible made him think of nothing. He’d say to himself: how could I ever study after a day of work, my head still filled with complaints. So often drinking coffee in Virgínia’s apartment, he’d imagined reading the Bible with her. He asked her shyly and almost floored by the daring — not exactly because of Virgínia, whose apartment was the smallest in the building but because of himself since he’d never spoken of the new Bible to anyone:
“You understand, ma’am, the Bible is the greatest duty of man. I’m saying that but I mean by that word that woman is also man, you understand?” — during a pause he scrutinized her afraid she could not reach his difficult thought — “We could read a little at night, it wouldn’t hurt, anyway, just to study and educate ourselves . . . What do you think?” he concluded completely disconcerted.
But she couldn’t answer right away. The idea of those evenings, calm and full of sanctity, moved her to a point that her face closed up somber and severe. It was as if she were going to have the opportunity to lead a new life — with overstatement she was wondering with a seriousness that was filling her heart with well-being: who knows what is to come. She said with an ordinary mien, a bit dry:
“Well sure, we can read.”
“Well right?” he replied getting up agitated and holding in his joyful unease in the face of Virgínia’s cold attitude. She however gazed at him for a discreet and sharp instant and he understood that she was wanting them to understand each other inside the falseness. Anyway she had never lived so simply with a person as she did with Miguel — she’d understood him better than any other human being up to that point. With Daniel it was hard, charmed, so steep, renewedly disappointing. With Miguel it was smooth and simple, he always made so much sense; one day he’d even said:
“I think that deep down all men and women go through life saying: I don’t want to think about that. And thinking that they didn’t think about it, right? how does that sound to you?” — he had ended up laughing a lot with wisdom, squeezing his eyes. She too was laughing quite a lot shaking her head several times in agreement, swallowing her coffee full of amazement at his insight. And wasn’t it true? nobody could stand much of what they felt. And now the Bible . . .
“Well sure, we can read,” she’d said coldly. He looked at her and they understood each other with caution, avoiding any explicitness.
“But drink your coffee before it gets cold!” she cried loudly with intensity. He gazed at her hesitating for a moment with hope and suddenly was overjoyed, rubbed his hands quickly:
“It’s true, it’s true!”
The next night he knocked on the door, she answered, saw him with the small Bible in his hand; with fury and modesty she retreated, her body rigid, her face indifferent. He wasn’t looking at her. He walked to the middle of the living room, stopped indecisive; she was still standing next to the door as if waiting for him to leave. Making an effort upon herself she said after a few instants:
“Do you want coffee before or after?”
He responded hurried:
“Up to you, ma’am . . .”
She made coffee, they drank it speaking about some unimportant things amidst long moments of silence filled with suspicion and prudence. They finally finished, he said with simplicity:
“Should I read or you, ma’am?”
“You, sir.”
“Which part?”
“Any one is fine.”
“You don’t have a preference?”
“I don’t know much about it.”
“That’s fine.”
He opened to the Sermon on the Mount, began to read in a rough and angled voice with hesitations filled up with vague deep murmurs nearly drowsy from the difficulty. All around it was silent; Virgínia propped her head on her hands without effort, with delicateness. On the third evening a sincerity filled with hope had been established between them and she was listening to the reading with parted lips as if to a story. In one part Jesus in the crowd was feeling himself touched by the sick woman and they said to him: but how do you ask who touched you when you are amidst a crowd that presses upon you? and he answered: because I felt a power emerge from me . . . This section became a new life for her, she was sighing deeply as in the face of an impossibility; absorbed, her head leaning, she was thinking. Ah, the desire for irony and goodness, like that for travel, that she was feeling; how candid I am! she was astonishing herself then and bathing in faint beatitude. But that wasn’t meditating in the way Miguel demanded — in fact she wasn’t reflecting and wasn’t reaching conclusions — she was thinking about the story itself, repeating it between glances, shadows, permissions and falls. Vaguely she was imagining this: but I too . . . Now she was lending meaning to a childhood memory that without the evenings she would have disregarded perhaps forever: when she was little she knew how to close her eyes and let the light filter in slowly from inside out — but if she remembered to open them suddenly, everything lost its brightness, she would remain tired, yes, without power. Miguel would agree with a certain reluctance that he also felt some similarity to Jesus with himself. One night, a bit disappointed and bored, he told Virgínia that he’d spoken to the pastor telling him about the Bible evenings. With surprise and displeasure he’d heard him say: “my son, these readings of yours lack religion . . . from the comments you make and the way you listen . . . it’s almost a sacrilege to read the Bible like that . . . you read it with more seriousness and meditation — I emphasize that word meditation. Go, my son; the difficulty comes from heaven; return and read as one studies. Meditation — I emphasize that word — meditation.”
The two sat there, pensive. Eventually, without speaking about it, they broke off the sessions forever. Until one time she invited him to dinner. That day she woke up early, purposeful, calm, and happy. The week before she’d received her allowance — she went out, bought meat, flowers, eggs, wine, jam, rice, vegetables — and for so long her kitchen had been clean, the flies buzzing famished in the sun. Surprised and adopting an attitude of disdain she bought for herself a decorative tortoise comb. She returned home with her face flushed, her arms full of packages — she felt that she was being one of the most truthful people she could be, she was understanding this by the natural and direct gazes of others. These would accompany
her with more astonishment when she wasn’t carrying anything in her arms. She washed the meat, embarrassed interrupted with a chummy brutality her light humming, her face flushed, salted it, cooked rice with tomato while sighing. She was feeling good, fervently good, as if the deepest part of things were strewing itself in nobility. She made small fried balls of carrot and eggs, rolling the dough with a woman’s intimate fingers, her eyebrows furrowed — she would have liked to be small and watching herself envious that she could play around in the kitchen. She prepared a trembling dessert of cream and jam, the kitchen and the sitting room were vividly filled with movements, she seemed to almost be bumping into herself. At two in the afternoon she felt famished and weak; she didn’t like to go to restaurants, she still felt a bit ashamed to eat in front of others. But today she was such a busy person, with so much to deal with, having a house that needed to be taken care of, a kitchen where there was stuff to do — it was obvious that this was no time to be sensitive to herself, she thought worried. She got dressed, went to a creamery, had a lunch of eggs and coffee. She returned down the street filled with sun, now discouraged and sluggish, almost apprehensive; went into the house — yes, they were preparations as if for a party, her heart was squeezing pained in a smile. In the afternoon she bathed, washed her hair, put on the tortoiseshell comb, the white dress — beneath the tight bodice she was feeling that physical constraint that gave her at the same time the certainty of being elegant. She went out in the wind with wet and smooth hair to buy bread and a stronger light bulb — and there was no one to offend her ever. She went back home as night was falling, set the table, arranged the silverware, changed the light bulb, cut the meat in steaks atop the frying pan brought from Upper Marsh — she’d stop short from time to time, bend over with a kind of grimace as if feeling a sudden pain; but it was just some feeling of extreme hope and fullness, and since she was alone she could bend over. She powdered her face. She turned off the light and sat by the window to wait and dry her skin, moist and cold with sweat. In the half-light things were shining calm, clean, and fragrant. She sighed. The work on the construction sites had long since stopped, a fragrance of jasmine was coming from the narrow street where a few lovers were already strolling. The moon appeared in the dark sky, a warm summer wind was passing through the city, the neighbors’ silverware had stopped clinking. A light numbness took her over deepening her, an unreality full of promise and fatigue was enveloping her weakening her. The moon was rising, a few couples of lovers were saying goodbye. There was a knock at the door. She jumped, got moving, her firm thigh was penetrated by the deaf corner of the table, she breathed getting a grip on herself, the strong pain connected to her own smell of powder and cool sweat; she flipped the switch, light gushed with intensity over her eyes weakened by the darkness, she was surprised because she’d forgotten she’d changed the light bulb. Barely making out the violent outline of things, she opened the door, Miguel was entering drying his forehead with the checkered handkerchief and stopping surprised, looking at Virgínia’s silk clothes, the snowy tablecloth, the joyful and rich light, the silverware sparkling. The flowers . . .
The Chandelier Page 14
