Skylight

by José Saramago

  These thoughts caused her to turn her attention back to Adriana, whose cheerfulness had always rung false to her, had seemed merely a brave front. Isaura kept silent, and Adriana disguised her feelings, unless that disguise was intended to act as a cover for Isaura. Trapped in this blind alley, Amélia despaired.

  Then it occurred to her that Adriana was gone almost all day, out of sight, but Amélia couldn’t simply drop in at the office as she had at the library. Perhaps the office held the key to the mystery. But if so, why had the problem only arisen after two years of working there? This thought, of course, made no sense: sometimes things do just happen, and the fact that they didn’t happen yesterday doesn’t mean they won’t happen today or tomorrow. She decided then that the “problem” lay with Adriana and had to do with the office. If it turned out she was wrong, then she would try another tack. Provisionally, she put Isaura to one side. Except that she still couldn’t understand Isaura’s tears. Something grave must have happened for her to cry as she had on that night and for her to remain so sad and silent ever since. Something extremely grave . . . Amélia could not or preferred not to think what it could have been. Adriana was a girl, a young woman, and the only grave thing in a woman’s life, the only one that could make that woman’s sister cry, was . . . But no, the idea was absurd and she tried to drive it from her mind. Now, however, everything was conspiring to make that idea seem more probable. First: Adriana spent all day away from the apartment; second: she occasionally worked late; third: every night she shut herself up in the bathroom . . . In a flash of insight Amélia recalled that, since that night, Adriana had stopped doing that. She always used to be the last to bed and always took her time. Now, while she wasn’t always the first, she was rarely the last to use the bathroom, and when she was, thought Amélia, she didn’t spend much time in there. Everyone knew that Adriana kept a diary, a childish whim of no importance, and that she wrote her diary while in the bathroom. Was the explanation for this whole muddle to be found in that diary? And how could she go about getting the key to the drawer in which Adriana kept it?

  Each of the four women had a drawer that was for her use alone. All the others were left unlocked. Living as they did, using the same bed linen and the same towels, it would be absurd to lock those drawers, but each of them had her own particular drawer in which to keep her private mementos. For Amelia and Cândida these were old letters, the ribbons from their wedding bouquets, a few yellowing photographs, the odd dried flower, perhaps a lock of hair. When they were alone and the past called to them, those private drawers became a kind of sanctuary where each could go to pay homage to her memories. Amélia and Cândida, knowing what their own mementos were, could each have said, with a fair degree of accuracy, what the other’s drawer contained too, but neither of them had any idea what Adriana and Isaura kept in theirs. Adriana kept her diary in hers, that much was certain, and Amélia was sure she would find the explanation she was looking for in there. Even before she considered how she would gain access to the diary, what weighed on her was the thought of committing such an act of violation. She wondered how she would feel if someone were to discover her own rather pathetic secrets, which were, besides, only the remnants of facts the others all knew about anyway. It would, she thought, be a terrible abuse. On the other hand, having promised to uncover her nieces’ secret and being only a step away from honoring that promise, she could not now draw back. Whatever the consequences might be, she had to know. It would not be easy. Quite apart from Amélia’s deep conviction that their respective secrets should be inviolable and that none of them would dare to open any drawer other than their own, a further problem was that Adriana always had the keys to her drawer with her. When she was at home, she kept them in her purse and it would be impossible to get hold of them, open the drawer and read whatever there was to read without Adriana knowing. And it was highly unlikely that Adriana would forget her keys. Unless Amélia stole them from her and managed to persuade Adriana that she had lost them. That would be the easiest way, but Adriana might get suspicious and try to block the keyhole with something. There was only one solution: to get another key made, but to do that she would have to make a copy, and that would involve taking the key to the locksmith. Was there no other way? A tracing might work, but how to get hold of the key?

  Amélia racked her brain. It was a matter of finding the right opportunity, the few minutes necessary for her to make a drawing of the keys. She tried several times, but at the last moment someone always came into the room. All these obstacles only increased her desire to know. The locked drawer made her tremble with impatience. She had lost all scruples now. Regardless of the consequences, she had to know. If Adriana had committed some shameful act, it would be best to find out before it was too late. It was that “too late” that frightened Amélia.

  Her persistence soon paid off. The cousins from Campolide came to visit them, a return visit for the one made sometime before by Cândida and Amélia. It was a Sunday. They spent all afternoon there, drinking tea and chatting. The usual memories were trotted out, always the same ones, which they all knew by heart, but to which they listened politely as if hearing them for the first time. Adriana had never been so lively and her sister had never made such an effort to appear to be contented. Cândida, deceived by her daughters’ gaiety, forgot all about the “situation.” Only Amélia did not. At an opportune moment, she got up and went to her nieces’ room. Heart pounding and hands shaking, she opened Adriana’s purse and took out the keys. There were five. She recognized two of them, one for the street door and the other for the door to their apartment. There were two other medium-sized keys and a smaller one. She hesitated. She didn’t know which of them was the key to the drawer, although she felt it must be one of the medium-sized keys. The drawer was only a few steps away. She could try one of the keys in the lock, but was afraid that any noise might attract her nieces’ attention. She decided to make a drawing of all three, which she did, although not without some difficulty. The pencil slithered from her fingers and refused to follow the exact shape of the keys. She had sharpened it to a long, sharp point to make the drawing more faithful, but her hands were shaking so much she almost gave up. From the next room came the sound of Adriana’s giggles: the story about her boss tripping on the carpet, which the cousins had not heard before. They all laughed uproariously and their laughter drowned out the tiny click of the purse closing.

  That night after supper, while the radio was murmuring a Chopin nocturne—the radio having been turned on in the warm afterglow of that jolly afternoon—Amélia said how pleased she was to see her nieces getting on so well together.

  “You see, it was all in your imagination,” said Cândida, smiling.

  “Yes,” said Amélia, “it must have been.”

  31

  With her monthly allowance safely stowed away in her handbag, the notes neatly folded up inside her greasy purse, Lídia’s mother was drinking a cup of tea. She had placed on the bed the knitting with which she occupied her evenings. She always visited twice a month, once to collect her money and again in order to show a friendly interest in her daughter’s life. Familiar with Paulino Morais’s habits, she appeared only on Tuesdays, Thursdays or Saturdays. She knew she wasn’t wanted, on those days or any others, but she turned up nonetheless. In order to “live decently” she needed that monthly subsidy. Given her daughter’s good financial position, it would seem wrong simply to abandon her. And because she was sure that Lídia would not, of her own volition, go out of her way to help, she felt it wise to remind her regularly of her existence. And so that Lídia would not think that she had purely venal reasons for coming to see her, she would call again about two weeks after receiving her allowance to inquire after Lídia’s health. Of the two visits, the first was the more bearable because it had a real objective. The second, despite that display of affectionate interest, was tedious for both mother and daughter.

  Lídia was sitting on the sofa, a book open on her lap. Having i
nterrupted her reading to pour herself a coffee, she had not yet gone back to it. She was staring at her mother without a glimmer of affection in her eyes, as coldly as she might look at a complete stranger. Her mother did not notice or was so inured to her daughter’s icy gaze that it had no effect. She was sipping her tea with the cool, composed air she always adopted when in her daughter’s apartment. The only less-than-delicate gesture she allowed herself—one demanded by her sweet tooth—was using her spoon to scrape up the sugar from the bottom of the cup.

  Lídia looked down again at her book as if she could no longer bear the disagreeable sight of her mother, whom she disliked intensely. She felt exploited, but that wasn’t the reason for her enmity. She didn’t like her because she knew she did not love her as a daughter. On several occasions she had considered sending her packing. The only reason she hadn’t was because she feared some terrible scene. The price she had to pay for keeping the peace was fairly high, but hardly excessive. She had grown accustomed to those twice-monthly visits. Flies are a nuisance too, but you just have to put up with them.

  Her mother stood up, placed her empty cup on the dressing table, then returned to her chair and resumed her knitting. The wool was distinctly grubby and her work advanced at a snail’s pace. Indeed, so slowly did the work progress that Lídia had not as yet been able to ascertain what the finished garment would be. She suspected that her mother only brought out her knitting on those visits to her apartment.

  She tried to immerse herself in her reading, having first glanced at her watch to calculate how much longer her mother would stay. She had decided not to utter a word until it was time to say goodbye. She felt irritable. Paulino had grown distracted again, however hard she tried to please him. She would kiss him ardently, something she did only when absolutely necessary. The same pair of lips can kiss in many ways, and Lídia knew them all. The passionate kiss, the kiss that involves not just lips but tongue and teeth as well, was reserved for important occasions. Lately, seeing Paulino growing ever more remote, or so it seemed, she had made liberal use of such kisses.

  “What’s wrong, dear?” asked her mother. “You’ve been staring at that page for ages now and you still haven’t finished it!”

  She spoke in the mellifluous, ingratiating tones of an employee thanking the boss for his Christmas bonus. Lídia shrugged and said nothing.

  “You seem worried. Have you quarreled with Senhor Morais?”

  Lídia looked up and asked ironically:

  “What if I have?”

  “That would be most unwise, dear. Men can be very odd. They get annoyed over the slightest thing. There’s no talking to them sometimes . . .”

  “You speak as if you’d had a lot of experience of men.”

  “I lived with your late father for twenty-two years, what more experience do I need?”

  “If you lived with my father for twenty-two years and never knew any other man, how can you speak of experience?”

  “Men are all the same, dear. If you’ve known one, you’ve known them all.”

  “Yes, but how?”

  “You just have to open your eyes and look.”

  “You must have very good eyesight, then.”

  “Oh, I do. I don’t wish to boast, but I just have to look at a man to know him!”

  “Well, you know more than I do, then. And what do you make of Senhor Morais?”

  Her mother put down her knitting and said warmly:

  “Ah, you really landed on your feet when you met him. However nice you are to him, you could never repay him for what he’s done for you. Just look at this apartment! Not to mention the jewelry and the clothes! Has anyone else ever treated you like this? When I think what I suffered . . .”

  “Oh, I know all about your suffering.”

  “You say that as if you didn’t believe me. All mothers suffer. And what mother wouldn’t be pleased to see her children doing well?”

  “Yes, what mother wouldn’t be pleased?” echoed Lídia mockingly.

  Her mother took up her knitting again and said nothing. She completed two rows, very slowly, as if her thoughts were elsewhere. Then she resumed the conversation:

  “It sounds to me like you’ve quarreled. Well, you be careful!”

  “What’s it got to do with you? If we have or haven’t quarreled, that’s my business.”

  “Well, I think you’re wrong, even if . . .”

  “Go on . . . even if what?”

  The woolen thread had become so coiled and tangled it appeared to be full of knots, or, rather, her mother was bending so low over her work at this point, it was as if the Gordian knot itself had been resuscitated.

  “Go on, spit it out.”

  “What I meant to say was . . . even if you’d found a better position!”

  Lídia snapped the book shut. Startled, her mother dropped a whole row of stitches.

  “The only thing that would prevent me from kicking you out right now is my respect for you as my mother. Except, of course, that I don’t respect you, not one bit, and yet, for some unfathomable reason, I still can’t bring myself to kick you out!”

  “Goodness, whatever did I say for you to get so hot under the collar?”

  “How can you ask? Put yourself in my place!”

  “Oh, what a fuss about nothing! What did I say that was so wrong? I’m just concerned about you.”

  “Please, just shut up, will you?”

  “But—”

  “Like I said, please, shut up!”

  Her mother whimpered:

  “How can you treat me like this? Me, your own mother, the one who brought you up and loved you? Is this all the thanks a mother gets?”

  “If I was a normal daughter and you were a normal mother, you’d be justified in complaining.”

  “And what about all the sacrifices I made, what about them?”

  “You’ve been richly rewarded, if, that is, you ever made any sacrifices. You’re in an apartment paid for by Senhor Morais, you’re sitting on a chair bought by him, you’ve just drunk the same coffee he drinks, the money in your purse is money he gave to me. Isn’t that enough?”

  Her mother continued to whimper:

  “How can you say such things? I feel positively ashamed . . .”

  “Oh, yes, I can see that. You only feel ashamed when things are spelled out for you. If you just think them, though, then you’re not ashamed.”

  Her mother quickly dried her eyes and said:

  “I wasn’t the one who forced you into this way of life. It was your choice!”

  “Thank you very much. I fear that, given the turn the conversation is taking, this will be the last time you set foot in my apartment!”

  “Which isn’t yours anyway!”

  “Thank you again. But regardless of whether it’s mine or not, I’m the one who gives the orders here. And if I say get out, you will.”

  “You might need me one day.”

  “Don’t worry, I won’t come knocking at your door! I’d rather starve to death than ask you for so much as one cêntimo back of what I’ve given you.”

  “Which wasn’t yours either!”

  “But which I earned, right? I actually earned that money. I earned it with my body. There has to be some point in having a nice body, even if it’s only to feed you!”

  “I don’t know why I don’t just leave!”

  “Shall I tell you why? It’s fear, fear of losing the goose who lays the golden eggs. I’m the goose, the eggs are there in your purse, the nest is this bed and the gander, well, you know who he is, don’t you?”

  “Don’t be so coarse!”

  “I feel like being coarse today, and sometimes the truth can be very coarse indeed. Everything’s all fine and dandy until we start being coarse, until we start telling the truth!”

  “That’s it, I’m leaving!”

  “Please do. And don’t come back either, because you might still find me in the mood to tell you a few home truths!”

  Her mother rol
led and unrolled her knitting, delaying having to get up. Still playing for time, she said:

  “Look, you’re not yourself today, dear. It’s your nerves. I didn’t mean to upset you, but you went too far. You two have probably had a bit of a tiff, which is why you’re all on edge, but it’ll pass, you’ll see . . .”

  “You know, it’s like you’re made of rubber. However hard you’re punched, you always bounce back. Can’t you see that I want you to leave?”

  “Yes, yes, but I’ll ring you tomorrow to find out how you are. It’ll pass.”

  “You’ll be wasting your time.”

  “Look, dear . . .”

  “I’ve said what I have to say. Now please leave.”

  Her mother gathered her things together, picked up her handbag and prepared to go. Given the way in which the conversation was ending, she had little hope of ever coming back. She tried to soften her daughter’s heart with tears:

  “You can’t imagine how upsetting this is for me . . .”

  “Oh, yes I can. What’s upsetting you is the thought of your little allowance being docked. Isn’t that right? Well, all good things come to an end . . .”

  She broke off when she heard the front door open. She got up and went out into the corridor:

  “Who is it? Oh, it’s you, Paulino! I wasn’t expecting you to­day . . .”