The Chandelier

by Clarice Lispector

  “Why were you crying?” asked Virgínia and since just then she was moved she wasn’t trying to put it politely, she was vulgar and ferocious. The silence of the living room floated for a long while without alighting upon them.

  “I don’t know,” he said.

  “Yes, yes.”

  He disguised a look of profound surprise.

  “Yes . . . my little darling.”

  He looked at her taken aback . . . Adriano would smile — but why did he see him smiling with sadness, which was impossible in Adriano? he looked at her taken aback . . . and there was nothing for it, the ache on his right side was lightly reborn, from that point he would start to leave, the room was brightening with the sea breeze, the salt air filling his lungs like a fisherman’s, the walls like erect mummies, unmoving image: he fell to his knees at Virgínia’s feet and mindful of the deep ache in his side and which nevertheless was hesitating to define itself, leaned his head on her legs, on her calm and warm thighs and was silently breathing and receiving back his breath mixed with Virgínia’s smell, with the smell of Virgínia’s white silk — Vera. But what was she understanding? he was still wondering almost amused; it was as if she wanted to surpass him, he who had no idea what was going on and was shrugging.

  Kneeling beside her with his face buried in her body. She was looking straight ahead, dry, almost severe. Almost without understanding herself she turned her head a bit brusquely toward outside the window making the brim of the hat that she hadn’t had time to take off vibrate. With her eyes hard and unmoving, her face was hiding from itself a slowly difficult expression that was taking shape with effort and attention, an expression of wildness and brightness struggling with that flesh used to waiting with patience, haughtiness and coldness for a moment that wouldn’t arrive. And that now was bursting in her heart with such inevitability. The minutes were going by. She suddenly felt pain commingle with flesh, intolerable as if each cell were being stirred and shredded, divided in a mortal birth. Her mouth abruptly bitter and burning, she was horrified, tough and contrite as if in the face of spilled blood, a victory, a terror. So that was happiness. The wounded splendor was bumping in her chest, insufferable; a sack of light had burst in her poor heart. She never could have gone ahead; weak and terrified, she’d reached the limp and fecund point of her being itself. She was waiting. Then with difficulty she moved her sweet hands through the hair of the redeemed man, gave him everything through her trembling fingers, she who’d never managed to introduce the contact of her life into the clay figurines. She spoke the first word of her new experience:

  “Vicente.”

  He raised his head, looked at her, was astonished, she existed above Adriano. And since she was strong in that moment, calm and full like a woman he surrendered as he’d already surrendered to the other women. She clasped the man’s head with her hands; in a precious and fresh gesture she kissed his light eyelids. The pleasure in the man was luminous and intense; he raised his eyes wanting with a silence to give both of them the certainty that he was a man and she a woman. And flinched in an irresistible movement pressing his right eye with the palm of his hand.

  “But you stuck your finger in my eye,” he was saying lost from himself, drying the tears that were pouring out.

  A joyful and deaf drum had been attacked in the middle of the room, an empty pavilion. Some thing had been concluded with sun and brightness! the drum was rolling in the middle of the room; and then never had a silence been so mute, calm, final in the hollow precinct. Vicente removed his hand from his eye, seemed to awaken for a slight instant; he saw her peaceful and erect beneath the tough hat, looked at her almost with curiosity; thought indistinctly: my God, if I were the world I’d regret having hurt a woman so much. Vera; could he have wounded her so much. But Virgínia strangely already seemed cured and simple, not having stopped more than the instant itself in that instant; she’d put down her hands, placed them on her lap, led them to the book atop the little table, rested them on her lap once more. Suddenly she brought them to her head and finally took off the hat, placed it on the table, smoothed her hair that was damp. She was remembering that she’d once had a classmate and that she’d simply loved her, as much as she could love Maria Clara. The girl — how could she ever remember her name? the girl had long golden hair and blue eyes, small, wicked. As long as Virgínia stayed inside her fear and shyness everything was light and delicate between them; afterward she started gaining confidence and one day amid the laughter of a game — everything was so loose, so natural, and so happy . . . really, how could she ever have guessed . . .? she’d grasped her friend’s treasure, her long hair and a few shaking and frightened strands broke, stayed in her hands; the other had screamed in pain, turned to Virgínia who was still bearing the excessive smile of joy on her already alarmed lips, and to her guilty, closed, and dumbfounded hand in the air; had screamed: big brute! Yes, yes, it had been exactly that. And one day she’d grabbed the neighbor woman’s daughter and held her in her arms until between them there was only intimacy; the whole child smelled like her own mouth, like the bedroom of a little girl sleeping. She wanted to hug her and the girl cried, the mother came with watchful eyes, the little girl said: she gave me a booboo, the mother had taken her daughter back saying that it was nothing. Yes, that had all happened.

  “Are we going out?” said Vicente with tact.

  He had stopped wrinkling his eyes, he was running his refined and masculine hand across his face as if needing to feel the hardness of his own features; he was disturbed; and on his cheek a certain smooth line was highlighted that was revealing so well that brand of attentive kindness of which he was capable. She stared at him as if awakening, as if she shouldn’t forget him ever.

  “No,” she said.

  No, she didn’t want to go out, she didn’t want to erase anything and was looking peacefully out the window. Just then she really was lovely — Vicente looked at her while lighting a cigarette, offering her one. She accepted; and then truly there had never been anything to erase and forget; the stretch of life was mixing with all of life and in a single current everything was moving along incomprehensible, essential, without fear and without courage. Carried by the imponderable power of the minutes that followed one another in time united to the instants that blood itself was beating. The afternoon was fine and calm. Virgínia was remembering that she was going on a journey, saying nothing and intensifying her contact with the existence around her. He himself went so far as to speak with great freedom and his mood was brightening, he was showing himself to be likable and cheerful. She was easily focusing and even told him how much she’d liked and understood what he’d said one day, maybe at the dinner at Irene’s. He was astonished that she’d recalled the phrase, understood above all, and almost extended his hand to her not out of vanity but in a kind of apology mixed with a confused premonition that they could have lived better, that he could have lived better with Vera, could have been nicer to Irene. She was feeling so peaceful that she even said: Maria Clara was so pretty at that dinner of Irene’s! But the simple way that he replied: she’s one of the most attractive women I know — depressed her; she smiled yet had imperceptibly changed the level on which she was existing as if the living room had darkened in its brightness. She was constantly remembering the journey, remembering her grandmother, surprised to be thinking so much about her. Confusedly, because death was seeming to her an act of life, death in old age was a fresh extemporaneous fruit and a sudden revivification. For her practically only now was her grandmother starting to exist. She was seeing again her fixed and moist eyes, her eyelids blinking in a powerless indecency, that rumpled brown farm skin, so much greater than her hard, blind, childlike body. She imagined her cunning and funereal saying: while I existed I ate a lot. How old, heavy, and dead was that thin grandmother who was suddenly remembering to die. She shuddered lightly at that thought that had blossomed in her cruel and free, shrugged with disregard yet a vague
anguish that was mingling also with that final afternoon with Vicente contracted her eyes in fright, made her heart squeeze in well-spaced and empty beats; she moved away from the thought in a run. She’d usually slip past the old woman at a run, giving her a quick kiss and going on. Sometimes she’d open her eyes really wide while looking at her grandmother as if truly to notice her and couldn’t manage to see her as if it were a first time — her grandmother wasn’t existing with the difference that her not existing was incomplete; just a face you’d kiss the way you kissed a paper package; and suddenly this woman was dying like someone who says: I lived. She was surprised to spend her last afternoon with Vicente thinking about the dead woman, but out of some dark and stubborn desire was still stuck to the horrible old lady — which in some strange way was meaning the farewell she was giving Vicente without his realizing it. No, she wasn’t going to speak of the journey to the Farm. But in an attraction that was mysteriously giving her a taste of a forbidden, low, exciting thing she was trying to speak of her grandmother, yes, and not even say she’d died . . . Her excitement was growing, she was telling details, recounting facts that were almost becoming revealing, almost, yes, but still secret — and the vileness, some irremediably nasty and clever thing was spreading through the clear and salty air of the room. Vicente was interested in her grandmother! He was joking: it must be nice to live in an old lady’s shadow. But like a suddenly rung bell, echoing violent through a city, he added:

  “maybe i’ll meet her some day?”

  And suddenly all her mad desire to mistake life and subjugate it at the price of the wickedness she was inventing, all her desire that was making her just then in some avid way happy was cut with a slow and cold knife and the world fell into reality with a pale sigh. She felt the fatigue of her whole game. Why not be simple, nice, understanding, attentive, and natural? she was wondering full of reproach; anyway, with another sigh, she was thinking she was scared. He went to the refrigerator and brought meat, milk, pudding; she made coffee, they sat for a little dinner. She’d never felt so good with Vicente. Even when he’d embraced her she’d understood that he was blinking, ready to forgive in the future the misfortunes that would overcome him. Even if she hadn’t been able to understand him, she’d greet him as a woman knows how to greet a man, as a mother. And while they were eating, the light on, she was despising all the happiness she’d had with Miguel. Vicente was speaking of someone so witty, so . . . In a daring move she was saying to him: “it sure is easy to say funny things; you close your eyes and don’t think . . . and are stunned by what you say . . .” He smiled:

  “Well darling, then close your eyes whenever you want . . .”

  She laughed too, closed her eyelids courageous and simple, her heart fluttering; she wavered a bit:

  “World . . . great world, I don’t know you but I’ve already heard and that bothers you . . . bothers me like a rock in my shoe!”

  He gave a frank and happy guffaw and while laughing was looking at her attentive, surprised:

  “Keep going, baby . . .”

  She was gaining confidence like a dog grooming itself; she closed her radiant eyes, went on with her blushing and hot face:

  “The body . . . from back then died . . . beneath the windows that . . . were opening . . . opening onto the pink, Vicente!” — she herself was laughing. Should she stop? she was wondering, because she’d end up saying something excessive, good morning, so-and-so, ruining even the past. But he was laughing extremely amused and she couldn’t help it, so fascinating it was to feel herself loved. He was laughing without embarrassment, getting uglier, his face open — suddenly like brother and sister, like from the same family, like people who expect nothing from each other, my God. If she’d only known that to win him over she had to close her eyes and speak, if she’d only known. It was with a bit of sadness in eyes sparkling with laughter that she went on:

  “Darling — darling, little green flower in the white guitar. Boy — boy, little green flower in the moonlight . . . in the moonlight . . . in the moonlight . . .”

  “No,” Vicente was saying excited and speaking seriously — “what you should do to get it right is not think, exactly not think . . .” — He smiled — “You’re a little like the improvisers of serenades, you know?” — he was suddenly looking confused — “Adriano must like to know you have that gift.”

  “Why?” she asked less cheerful.

  “Well, he thinks you’re interesting. I think he really likes you,” he was answering almost exchanging a look with her about the oddity of the fact.

  Yes, it was like a night of glory. She laughed quietly, soft, her eyes full of overwhelmed and dreamy moisture. Staring at her, Vicente felt his heart surrender, a sweet, warm, and suffocating foam enveloped him, his eyes were tamed, smiling. She was looking — he’d never been so beautiful. With a kind and simple voice he said blowing lightly on her face:

  “I love you, girl.”

  He’d hardly said it however, without transforming the power of his face and even trying to keep it in order to follow the new feeling with freedom, he realized imperceptibly that he didn’t love her, that he’d loved her maybe precisely before saying: I love you. Enraged with himself, he wanted to take back what he’d said while observing Virgínia’s face so frightened and translucent. Could that be the first time he’d said it? he wondered with surprise and reproach. He’d said too much, he’d said too much, he was thinking looking at her with fatigue and pity.

  “Your hair’s falling in your face,” he said with a disguised rudeness. And that’s how he was saying again that it wasn’t love. But almost impatient he was feeling that it would be impossible now to rob her of the “I love you,” and she was smiling with a joy that was making her unlikable, such a bore.

  “Let’s go out, take a stroll,” he said annihilated.

  With a frightened movement she grabbed his hand saying: no, no . . . , because going out would make the day end. Without understanding her he looked straight at her, asked: why? Since she couldn’t explain, she smiled at him with a droll, extremely friendly and attractive look, lost. He can’t help laughing, she said with certain pride and surprise: what a woman . . . , and leaning over to kiss her hair felt the dizzying and serious perfume of her body, some thing that couldn’t be cheated, kissed her eyes that could hardly close so full were they of life; he leaned his face almost with sadness against that cheek fresh and bright like a gaze.

  “Virgínia.”

  Then, when she felt that she should go in a little while, the fuse was blown, the sea wind was puffing through the dark rooms . . . He lit candles while saying:

  “You know, I have to translate this last page now because I broke off before you came: I was very tired. And I have to go out very early tomorrow.”

  She’d been idle wandering around the living room that was seeming to fly with the wind. She was taking a close look at things while furrowing false eyebrows, touching them with delicate hands, living intimately. She smoothed with her fingers the curtain, her body was giving itself over to a vague movement accompanying the sigh of the sea, raising her arm and suddenly she felt her own shape cut out of the air. She was aware that if Vicente caught sight of her he’d have the same quiver. She looked at him but he was distracted. Another minute in the same lightly alive position and he might notice her . . . She realized however that stiffness was gradually substituting the grace of the pose, her own sensation aged and in a pensive and painless gesture she drew back her body to its own proportions. She abandoned the living room, crossed the winged bedroom, reached the glazed doors and looked at the street below. The sea couldn’t be seen except in a flash like a dark and profound movement — she trembled. It was raining, the street was shining black and sweet, the cars were running. An inspiration pierced her so sharp and sudden that she closed her eyes shaken, captured. Stumbling over the undefined furniture, breathing in that reserved darkness, she reached the doo
r of the living room where he was working, his myopic eyes seeking the letters in the fickle twilight.

  “Vicente,” she said smiling, anguished. “Let me sleep here.”

  He lifted his head surprised and soon through the flame of the candle a smile was flickering.

  “You want to?”

  “Very much,” she asked laughing, her hoarse voice heavy with loveliness.

  It had been such a happy night, the rooms were fluttering with the fragile flames of the candles. They had drunk a cup of milk and also a glass of clear and gentle wine. Then she’d changed clothes looking with intimate passion at the nightgown she’d leave with Vicente, while hearing him close the doors and walk in the kitchen, in the bathroom. Her face, after she’d taken off the dress, was reflected shining and blushing in the surprising light of the candle; her shoulders were being covered in red and dark shadows. Vicente was closing the front door checking the locks once more; there were thieves in the area, they’d come in even through front doors. The world was feeling big to her, throbbing and dark, so full of fear and expectant joy! while the parlor window was knocking dryly in the wind and Vicente was rushing to close it. Then they lay down together, serene; Vicente was pinching with his fingers the lit wick of the candle. Rain was breaking out again and the distant trams were singing on the tracks vanishing in distance and silence. He stroked her a little with attentiveness, said in a quiet, almost severe voice, which fit well in the dark room:

  “Sleep, baby.”

  She realized seconds later that he’d fallen asleep. A silence of fire extinguishing itself in ashes. She still kept her eyes open. For a moment she missed the cricket. Having a cricket lodging in your bedroom wasn’t having a pet, it didn’t mean much but you’d always remember; it was an insoluble memory, hard and shining like the cricket itself singing — she’d miss it when she went back to the Farm. And because she’d thought about the journey she reached out her hand in the dark for a caress and with a start, her eyes suddenly flung into the air, she found his belly cold, limp, and throbbing like a toad’s. Vicente. She waited a bit, tense, sharp; then gave herself over to an almost joyful resignation. He was breathing peacefully. Indistinctly snoring. She smiled while sinking her head into the pillow with secret mischief and new courage for the coming days. One day . . . , she was thinking pursing her lips in an incomprehensible threat directed at Vicente, one day . . . He kept breathing loudly almost snoring, unconscious. And she in a movement of retreat and self-reproach ended up avoiding her own future, with a sigh. She could no longer disguise the broad well-being that was sinking her into her own body, thoughtful, her whole being bent toward one same, difficult and delicate sensation. She was blinking her eyes in the darkness with pleasure. And a new hope. But not for the future, more like a hope for living that very instant. Then, amidst the vast space of the world in which her body was wavering content, she remembered her father, of whom she’d once been ashamed not wanting to be seen in his company in front of her classmates. She remembered her mother, sometimes sweet like a grazing animal and from whom she’d separated forever at birth with a glance, a reproach, and an unforgivable watchfulness. She remembered the center of her own heart that seemed made of fear, vanity, ambition, and cowardice — that had been her past life. She felt isolated amidst her sin; and from her extreme humility, her eyes moist, suddenly with ardor she’d be better just to please God. But from her own awareness of her evil was also coming a dark and lively pleasure, a deaf and innocent sensation of having won, of having with inevitability and depravity lived heroically. She was on guard, lost in a half dream where reality was arising deformed and smooth, without thoughts, in visions. Sometimes she’d sink further into a sensation and that was sleeping. Then she’d be startled, an instant on the level of the room hearing Vicente breathe in a warm and wound-up sleep. She’d get closer to him, nestle her body against that tepid and serene spring from which a very pleasant smell of tired skin was coming. Again she’d get lost in sweet and extraordinary mists, pursuing an intimate pleasure that wouldn’t be defined. She halted brusquely upon hearing him speak.