Skylight

by José Saramago

  “Do you really want me to tell you?”

  “Yes.”

  From that moment on, Caetano was lost. Before he said that word, there had still been time to avoid receiving the inevitable slap in the face, but he had said yes and was already regretting it. Too late.

  “You still haven’t lost hope, then? You still think she’ll fall into your arms one day, do you? Aren’t you embarrassed by what happened?”

  Caetano’s chin was trembling with rage. Saliva appeared at the corners of his thick lips.

  “Do you want her lover to come and rip you to shreds again for overstepping the mark?”

  And in a tone of ironic concern, as if she were giving him a piece of advice, she said:

  “Have a little self-respect. She’s far too classy a piece for you to lay hands on. Make do with the other women, the ones whose photos you carry around in your wallet. I can’t say I care for your taste. I suppose when they have their mug shots taken they give you a copy, is that right? You’re a sort of branch office of the police, aren’t you?”

  Caetano turned deathly pale. His wife had never gone so far before. He clenched his fists and took a step toward her:

  “One day I’ll break every bone in your body! One day I’ll beat you to a pulp, do you hear? Just don’t push me!”

  “You wouldn’t dare.”

  “You . . .” and a particularly filthy word emerged from his lips.

  Justina said only:

  “You’re not insulting me but yourself, because that’s how you see all women.”

  Caetano’s heavy body swayed stiffly like that of a robot. Fury and impotent rage sent words up into his mouth, but there they stumbled and died. He raised his clenched fist as if to bring it down on his wife’s head. She didn’t flinch. His fist, defeated, slowly descended. Justina’s eyes resembled two burning coals. A humiliated Caetano vanished from the room, slamming the door.

  The cat, who had been observing his owners with glaucous eyes, slipped away along the dark corridor and lay down on the doormat, silent and indifferent.

  19

  Isaura, unable to sleep, had been tossing and turning in bed for two hours now. The whole building was quiet. Occasionally, from outside in the street, she heard the footsteps of some night owl returning home late. The pale, distant light of the stars came in through the window. In the darkness of the bedroom she could just make out the still-darker shapes of the furniture. The wardrobe mirror vaguely reflected the light from the window. Every quarter of an hour, as inflexible as time itself, the clock in the downstairs apartment reminded her of her insomniac state. Everything was silent and asleep, except for Isaura. She did all she could to get to sleep. She counted to a thousand, then counted again, she relaxed her muscles one by one, she closed her eyes, tried to forget about her insomnia and slip past it into sleep. In vain. Every single one of her nerves was awake. Despite the effort required to make her brain concentrate on the need to sleep, her thoughts were leading her along vertiginous paths into deep valleys from which arose the dim murmur of voices calling to her. She was hovering high up on the powerful back of a bird with wide wings, which, after soaring above the clouds, where it was hard to catch her breath, fell like a stone into the misty valleys in which she could make out white figures so pale they appeared to be naked or covered only by transparent veils. She was tormented by an objectless desire, by a desire for desire and by an equal fear of it too.

  At her side, her sister was sleeping peacefully. Isaura found her quiet breathing and her stillness exasperating. She twice got up and went over to the window. Random words, half-finished sentences, vague gestures were going round and round in her head. It was like a scratched record that repeats over and over the same lovely musical phrase, which becomes odious with endless repetition. Ten times, a hundred times, the notes recur and mesh and meld until all that remains is a single, obsessive sound, terrible and implacable. You feel that just one minute of that obsession will bring madness in its wake, but the minute passes and madness does not come. Instead you grow still more lucid. Your spirit embraces far horizons, travels here, there, everywhere, with no frontiers to contain it, and with each step you take you become more and more painfully lucid. To forget about it, to stop the sound, to crush it with silence would mean peace and sleep, but the words, the phrases, the gestures rise up from beneath the silence in a dumb, endless spiral.

  Isaura told herself that she was mad. Her head was burning, her forehead too, and her brain seemed to have grown so large it was about to burst out of her skull. It was her insomnia that was to blame, and it would not leave her until those thoughts left her as well. And what thoughts, Isaura! What monstrous thoughts! What repellent aberrations! What subterranean furies were pushing at the trapdoors of her will!

  What diabolical, malicious hand had guided her toward that book? And it was supposed to serve a moral purpose too! Of course, said cold reason, almost lost in the whirlwind of sensations. Why, then, this turmoil of unchained instincts erupting in her flesh? Why had she not read it coolly, dispassionately? Weakness, said reason. Desire, screamed her long-buried instincts, for years shunned and ignored as being shameful in the extreme. And now those instincts had risen to the surface, and her will was drowning in a pool darker than night and deeper than death.

  Isaura gnawed at her wrists. Her face was drenched in sweat, her hair clung to her scalp, her mouth was twisted into a violent grimace. Close to madness, she sat on the edge of the bed, ran her hands through her hair and looked around her. Night and silence. The sound from that scratched record was rising from the abyss of silence. Exhausted, she fell back on the bed. Adriana shifted slightly, but continued to sleep. Her indifference felt like a recrimination. Despite the suffocating heat, Isaura pulled the sheet up over her head. She covered her eyes with her hands, as if the night were not dark enough to hide her shame, but the darkness behind her eyelids filled up with red and yellow lights, like the sparks from a bonfire. (If only dawn would break, if only the sun would miraculously leave the other side of the world and burst into the room!)

  Slowly, Isaura’s hands moved toward her sister. Her fingertips could feel the heat of Adriana’s body from a centimeter away. They stayed there for several long minutes, neither advancing nor retreating. The sweat had dried on Isaura’s forehead, but her face was scalding hot as if a fire were burning inside her. Her fingers advanced until they touched Adriana’s bare arm, then withdrew as if they had received an electric shock. Isaura’s heart was beating dully. Her wide, dilated eyes could see nothing but blackness. Again her hands advanced. Again they stopped. Again they moved forward. Now they were resting on Adriana’s arm. With a slithering, sinuous movement, Isaura moved closer to her sister. She could feel the heat emanating from her body. Slowly, one of her hands ran along Adriana’s arm from wrist to shoulder, where it slipped in beneath her hot, damp armpit and insinuated itself beneath one breast. Isaura’s breathing became rapid and irregular. The hand slid beneath the light fabric of Adriana’s nightdress as far as her stomach. Adriana turned abruptly onto her back. Her bare shoulder was on the same level as Isaura’s mouth, which sensed the proximity of flesh. Like iron filings drawn to a magnet, Isaura’s mouth fixed itself on Adriana’s shoulder. It was a long, fierce, hungry kiss. At the same time, her hand grabbed Adriana’s waist and drew her closer. Adriana woke with a start. Isaura did not release her grip. Her mouth was still planted on her shoulder like a sucker and her fingers fastened on her thigh like claws. With a cry of terror, Adriana pulled away and leapt out of bed. She ran to the bedroom door, then, remembering that her mother and aunt were sleeping on the other side, turned back, taking refuge by the window.

  Isaura had not moved. She tried to pretend she was asleep, but Adriana still did not come back to bed. She could hear her sibilant breathing. Through half-closed lids, she could see her sister’s body silhouetted against the opalescent backdrop of the window. Then, abandoning all pretense at sleep, she said softly:

  “Adr
iana.”

  Her sister’s tremulous voice answered:

  “What do you want?”

  “Come here.”

  Adriana did not move.

  “You’ll get cold,” insisted Isaura.

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “You can’t stay there. If you don’t come over here, I’ll come to you.”

  Adriana approached, sat down on the edge of the bed and reached out to turn on the light.

  “Don’t,” said Isaura.

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t want you to see me.”

  “Why ever not?”

  “I’m ashamed . . .”

  These words were spoken in a murmur. Adriana’s voice was becoming firmer, but Isaura’s trembled as if she were about to break into sobs:

  “Please, I beg you, lie down . . .”

  “No, I won’t.”

  “Why? Are you afraid of me?”

  Adriana took a while to answer:

  “Yes, I am . . .”

  “I won’t do anything, I promise. I don’t know what came over me. I swear . . .”

  Isaura began to cry softly. Adriana opened the wardrobe door and, by touch alone, found a woolen jacket. She put it on and sat down again at the foot of the bed.

  “Are you going to stay there?” asked her sister.

  “Yes.”

  “All night?”

  “Yes.”

  Isaura let out a louder sob. Almost immediately, the light in the room next door came on and they heard Amélia say:

  “Is something wrong?”

  Adriana quickly stuffed her jacket behind the bed and slipped beneath the sheets. Amélia appeared in the doorway, a shawl wrapped about her shoulders.

  “What is it?”

  “Isaura had a bad dream,” said Adriana, sitting up in order to hide her sister.

  Amélia came closer:

  “Are you ill?”

  “It’s nothing, Aunt. It was just a nightmare. Go back to bed,” said Adriana, pushing her away.

  “All right, but if you need anything, just call.”

  The bedroom door closed again, the light went out, and silence gradually returned, broken only by a few muffled sobs. Then the sobs became fewer and farther between, and only the shaking of Isaura’s shoulders betrayed her agitation. Adriana kept her distance, waiting. Slowly the sheets grew warm again. The warmth from their two bodies mingled. Isaura said:

  “Do you forgive me?”

  Adriana did not respond at once. She knew that she should say yes, in order to reassure Isaura, but the word she wanted to say was an abrupt no.

  “Do you forgive me?” Isaura asked again.

  “Yes, I forgive you.”

  Isaura felt an impulse to embrace her sister and weep, but she controlled herself, fearing that Adriana might misinterpret the gesture. She felt that, from then on, everything she did or said would be poisoned by the memory of those few minutes, that her love for her sister had been distorted and soiled by that terrible bout of insomnia and by what had followed. Breathlessly, she murmured:

  “Thank you.”

  The minutes and hours passed very slowly. The clock downstairs chimed at regular intervals, measuring out the time as if it were an endless skein of wool. Isaura finally fell asleep, exhausted. Adriana did not. She remained awake until the bluish light of night filling the window had become the gray light of dawn, which, in slow gradations, was replaced by the white light of morning. Motionless, staring up at the ceiling, her head pounding, she was obstinately struggling with the awakening of her own hunger for love, which was equally repressed, hidden and frustrated.

  20

  That evening, in Anselmo’s apartment, they dined earlier than usual. Maria Cláudia had to get dressed up in order to be introduced to Paulino Morais, and it was best not to keep a person waiting when you were planning to ask him a favor. Mother and daughter had eaten quickly, then disappeared into the latter’s bedroom. There were various problems to resolve as how best to present Claudinha, and the most difficult of all was what to wear. None of her dresses set off her beauty and her youth better than a yellow sleeveless number in a light, airy fabric. When she turned, its full, gathered skirt resembled an inverted flowerhead and fell languidly from her waist like a lazy wave. This won Rosália’s vote; however, Claudinha, with her natural good sense and good taste, realized that while the dress would be ideal for the summer months, it looked out of place in a still-rainy spring. Besides, Senhor Morais might disapprove of its not having sleeves. Rosália agreed, but made no further suggestions. She had chosen that dress and that alone, and had no other preferences.

  The choice was not easy, but in the end Claudinha plumped for a gray-green dress, which was discreet and appropriate for the season. It was a woolen dress, with long sleeves that fastened at the cuffs with buttons of the same gray-green color. It had a modest neckline that barely revealed her throat. For a future employee it was perfect. Rosália disagreed, but as soon as her daughter put the dress on, she saw that she was right.

  Maria Cláudia was always right. She studied herself in the wardrobe mirror and liked what she saw. The yellow dress made her look younger, but what she wanted now was to look older. No frills, no bare arms. The dress she had chosen fitted her like a glove, seemed to cling to her body and respond to her slightest movement. It had no belt, but the cut of the dress gave it a natural waist, and Maria Cláudia’s waist was so slender anyway that a belt would spoil the effect. Seeing herself in the mirror, Claudinha realized which direction she should take in future as regards what she wore. No frills and fripperies to hide her figure. And at that moment, turning this way and that in front of the mirror, it occurred to her that she would look good in a lamé dress, the kind that resembles a second skin, as flexible and supple as her own.

  “What do you think, Mama?” she asked.

  Rosália was left speechless. She was hovering around her daughter like a dresser preparing the star for her big moment. Maria Cláudia sat down, took lipstick and rouge from her handbag and began to apply her makeup. Her hair could wait; it required only a quick brush. She didn’t overdo the makeup, though; it was even more discreet than her dress. She was relying on her understandably nervous state to give her a good color—a little nervousness always suited her. When she had finished, she stood before her mother and said again:

  “What do you think?”

  “You look lovely, sweetheart.”

  Claudinha smiled at her own reflection, gave herself one last probing look and declared that she was ready. Rosália summoned her husband, and Anselmo duly appeared. He had adopted the noble expression of a father about to decide his daughter’s future, and he seemed genuinely moved.

  “Do you like it, Papa?”

  “You look charming, my dear.”

  Anselmo had learned that, at key moments such as this, “my dear” was the best form of address to use. It conferred seriousness on the occasion, suggested fatherly affection and pride tinged with respect.

  “I’m so nervous,” said Claudinha.

  “You must keep calm,” said her father, smoothing his neat mustache with one firm hand. Nothing could trouble the firmness of that hand.

  When Claudinha walked past him, Anselmo slightly adjusted the string of pearls she was wearing: the final touch, and made, as was only right, by the firm, loving hand of her father.

  “Off you go, my dear,” he said solemnly.

  Her heart fluttering inside her like a caged bird, Maria Cláudia went down the stairs to the first floor. She was far more nervous than she seemed. She had been to Lídia’s apartment on innumerable occasions, but never when her lover was there. This visit, then, had about it an air of complicity and secrecy, of something forbidden. She was being admitted into the presence of Paulino Morais, into direct knowledge of Lídia’s “irregular situation.” This excited and dizzied her.

  Lídia opened the door, smiling broadly.

  “We were expecting you.”

 
These words reinforced Maria Cláudia’s feeling of intimacy. She entered, trembling all over. Lídia was wearing her taffeta dressing gown and a pair of dance shoes that were attached to her ankles by two silvery straps. They looked more like sandals than shoes, and yet Maria Cláudia would have given anything to own such a pair.

  Accustomed as she was to being shown straight into the bedroom, she took a step in that direction. Lídia smiled:

  “No, not that way.”

  Claudinha blushed scarlet. And so it was, blushing and confused, that she appeared before Paulino Morais, who was waiting for her in the dining room; he was wearing a jacket and smoking his usual cigarillo.

  Lídia introduced them. Paulino got up. With the hand holding the cigarillo, he gestured to Maria Cláudia to take a seat, and they all sat down. Paulino was looking fixedly at Claudinha. She averted her gaze and stared down at the geometric figures in the carpet.

  “Please, Paulino,” said Lídia, still smiling, “can’t you see you’re embarrassing Maria Cláudia?”

  Paulino started slightly, then he smiled too and said:

  “That certainly wasn’t my intention.” And turning to Maria Cláudia: “I didn’t think you were so . . . so young!”

  “I’m nineteen, Senhor Morais,” she said, looking up.

  “As you see, she’s still a child,” said Lídia.

  Claudinha glanced across at her. The look they exchanged was suspicious and suddenly hostile. Maria Cláudia saw in a flash what Lídia was thinking, and what she saw sent a shiver of fear and pleasure through her. She sensed that Lídia was now her enemy, and she understood why. She saw herself and Lídia as if from another person’s perspective, from Paulino Morais’s perspective, for example, and the comparison clearly favored her.

  “I’m not that much of a child, Dona Lídia, although I am, as Senhor Morais said, very young.”

  Lídia bit her lip: she could see what Claudinha was hinting at. She immediately regained her composure, however, and laughed:

  “Oh, I was just the same when I was your age. It used to drive me mad when anyone called me a child, but of course now I see they were right. So why can’t you see that too?”