“A bit better. He might be released in a couple of weeks. But he’s very weak.”
“Poor man! It’s one thing if he gets his health back, but I can’t see you having another person in the house, someone so sick.”
Palmira stood in front of her, admiring the nightgown as Maria Lluïsa continued to sew.
“If only I didn’t have to work for a living! I would even enjoy sewing, but . . .” What a bore. Couldn’t she just leave?
“And all the medication; it must be terribly expensive.”
Palmira couldn’t take her eyes off the mountain of brilliant snow that she dared not touch. If I show her the nightgown, she’ll stay another hour.
“Come on, Palmira, off to bed, you have to get up early.”
Palmira sighed and headed for the door with a sense of regret. “Good night. Don’t be up too late.”
•
Yes, the medicine was expensive. First the hospital, then the surgeon, now all the medication. What would be left of the hundred thousand francs? The stack of bills would slowly dwindle. “One operation might not be enough. If it isn’t, he’ll need a second,” the physician had said as he looked at her apologetically, wiping his glasses with a splendidly white handkerchief. What if one operation proved not to be enough, and he decided at the last moment to leave his money to the other relatives? That would really upset things. Of course she could always . . . Then everything would work out. But how could she do it without anyone realizing? She wouldn’t be the first to try it. Or the last. Increase the dose, little by little. He was already so weak; everyone said it was a lost cause. He would probably live only a few months.
Dr. Simon had been her physician for years, a kindly old soul, a bit absentminded, only kept a few of his former patients. He would never even notice. His house calls were more like visits from an elderly, tiresome relative than a doctor. Twenty-five, thirty, thirty-five drops. Two months and it would be over. How could she be sure? When she went to the pharmacy to buy the drops, she would wait until the place was empty. When she had paid and was holding the bottle, her hand on the door about to leave, she would turn around: “Senyor Pons, this medicine isn’t dangerous, is it? If I lose count one day, I don’t suppose it would matter.” Maybe the pharmacist would say: “Oh no, be very careful, only twenty drops.” I would have to ask in a very natural tone, with maybe just a touch of uneasiness. “Well, it’s best to know.” Senyor Pons was very neat. He would scratch his white beard and smile at her above his glasses, lowering his head a bit between the two large glass spheres that stood on the counter, one green, the other a caramel color. A small bottle with a rubber dropper. The glass would be cold, the liquid murky. He wouldn’t suffer at all. It would really be for his own good. He would fade away, slowly withering.
She could set herself up right away. An apartment in the center of town, on Cours Clémenceau, for example, near Place Tourny. A parlor with two balconies overlooking the street, half a dozen armchairs upholstered in cream-colored damask, a mirror with a gold frame, a few antique fashion engravings scattered about the walls. She would have the workshop at the back, by the gallery. Nice and sunny. I’ll take Simona with me—she does the best edging—and Rosa, the best embroiderer. She would take the two girls from Indochina who worked for hours without opening their mouths, quiet as a pair of cats, only raising their heads to smile. She didn’t want Madame Durand; she would find herself a good ironer, that would be easy enough. Adrienne would be dumbstruck when she saw that her best workers had abandoned her, left her high and dry! She would go to Paris every year to look for new designs. She would ride first class, wagon lit, with velvet seats and a shiny ashtray by the window. At the beginning of each season, she would send cards, printed with calligraphic swirls framing her name in English script, to her clients. Perfumed cards. She would keep them in a cushioned box where she had sprinkled drops of perfume . . . If she increased the number of drops too quickly, she could be caught. And he might suffer. Some time ago she had read The Pink Shadow, where an attorney poisoned three people over some stolen documents. He laced their coffee with arsenic. She had lent the book to Adrienne; all the girls in the shop had read it. Drops were the surest method. Twenty-five, then thirty. Her hand would shake a bit, and the glass dropper would rattle against the glass. One, two, three, four. Perfect round drops that would become slightly deformed from the weight as they slid from the dropper. When they hit the water they caused a tiny mist. Five, six, seven.
The Cathedral clock struck twelve. She opened wide her round eyes as if she had just woken up. What was I thinking?
The needle was out of thread; she would have to start another. She yawned. Suddenly, mid-yawn, she became conscious of what she had been imagining and was terror-stricken. She closed her mouth slowly and rubbed her eyes.
“Oh my God!” She placed the sewing on the table. She was sleepy, her eyes hurt, she should go to bed. She removed her smock, sweater, skirt, wool slip and stood in her undershirt and pink knitted breeches that reached down to her knees. She glanced at the bridal nightgown. I wonder how it would look on me. She stood in front of the mirror on the wardrobe and tried it on. She was thin, and the nightgown was much too large for her. She tied it at the waist, held out the skirt with both hands, and spun around.
If I had married my cousin, I would have made myself a white, white nightgown. Just like this one.
She felt a knot in her throat, something gripping her neck. Her eyes filled with tears.
“What an idiot you are!”
Slowly she removed the nightgown, folded it carefully, and left it on the chair before switching off the light. She climbed into bed in the dark.
She was still weeping when the sun came up.
Summer
She stopped in front of a shop window full of umbrellas, and her friend, who was walking ahead of her, suddenly turned around: “Carme, we’ll get separated!” Her name was Carme. He had followed them all the way from Travessera de Gràcia—the street where he had worked for eleven years—to Pàdua.
Now, as he leaned over the railing on the balcony off the gallery, he could still see the sheer, pearl-gray dress with the very pale pink—almost mauve—flowers printed on it. A cool, sweet dress. “Carme, Carme.” She stopped at all the shop windows that had pretty things, and her friend had pulled her by the arm, trying to steer her clear of so many temptations. On Pàdua, close to Saragossa, they went inside an ironing shop: we offer top-quality pressing. The sun shone directly on the shop window, making it impossible for him to see inside. And that was how he lost her: because it was late and a little boy who was playing ball had stopped to look at him with curiosity and distrust. Now he couldn’t get her out of his mind. Nor could he forget the dress, the legs, the . . . Her skin was tight, dark, smooth. With each step, the hem of her skirt swayed. With each step. With the slightest movement.
He stood there, hands in his trouser pockets, shirt unbuttoned at the neck, gazing at the darkening sky as it slowly became dotted with stars.
“Why don’t you help clear the table instead of playing the gentleman?”
A swallow squawked as it flew in. They had had a nest on the balcony for three years, and every spring they brought a bit more mud.
“My work is never done, but you . . . Did you remember the clothesline broke and the mosquito net on the boy’s bed needs to be changed? Of course not. You never think about anything. Why don’t we just look at the scenery? Sen-yor is looking at the scenery; don’t disturb him. Instead of daydreaming, you should be looking for your son. At this rate, he’ll turn into a street urchin.”
“He’s old enough. He knows the way home.”
“We’ll see how you feel when he gets hit by a car.”
How the devil would a car hit him if there weren’t even any carriages on their street? She must have guessed what he was thinking.
“The other day he walked all the way to Wagner by
himself, without asking you for permission, as far as I know. If you’re not careful, any day now he’ll be killed by a truck in Plaça Bonanova.”
“Well, we can’t tie him up with a rope, can we?” he shouted.
The scent of flowers reached him from the gardens below. He could see them all from the balcony. The palm tree at the Codinas’ spread its dusty fans in the thick air. The darkest tree of all was a medlar, old and tall, with a smooth, knotless trunk and leaves so stiff they looked like cardboard. He wiped the sweat from his forehead and neck. A mosquito buzzed furiously around him. What if by magic he suddenly found himself in the woods . . . If he could only spend the night in the woods . . . Life, after all . . . This is the only good thing there is in life. Just this. The night. A girl. Just this. And even then it’s so terrible, as if you were suffering or dying. For a girl like that you could do anything. “Carme, Carme.” Why does a beautiful girl always have an ugly girlfriend? Her friend was carrying a package. Clothes to be pressed, no doubt. we offer top-quality pressing. The letters on the sign were black, except the capitals, which were red. Carme. He would utter her name in a low voice until finally, by virtue of repetition, she would belong to him.
“Will you empty the bucket? It’s too heavy for me.”
“What?”
“Are you asleep? I said, will you empty the bucket into the sink for me; I’m not strong enough to lift it.”
“I’m coming.”
“What’s up with you?”
“I’m hot and sleepy. That’s all.”
He emptied the bucket. Half the water spilled onto the floor, and a faint smell of bleach filled the kitchen.
“I would’ve been shocked if you did it right.”
He lit a cigarette and returned to the balcony. A moment later, his wife called from the dining room:
“I’ve had about enough. Do you hear? I’m going to bed. If the boy’s not back by ten, please go get him.”
“Would you just leave me alone,” he said, turning abruptly, his eyes full of anger.
“Go ahead and shout. Maybe the Puig family invited the boy to dinner—that would save us a bit. None of us are overweight.”
“Why don’t you just go to sleep? You’re in a terrible mood.”
His wife had never been as pretty as the girl this afternoon. She’d never worn a dress that becoming. Where could she have found the material? For eleven years, he had sold silk and wool, wool and silk, and his fingers had never come across a gray crêpe with pink flowers and vines as perfect as hers. Never had he felt such a precise desire as that night, the desire to seize her and take her away to the woods, woods smelling of pine trees filled with moonlight. Perhaps the years had changed him, but not the way other people changed. Perhaps his youth was now, when he was almost forty. Or perhaps youth lasted longer than they say, true youth, with this taste of fire and earth rising from his heart.
Someone kicked the door violently. He opened it, and his son rushed in, just like the swallow, heading straight for the dining room.
“We caught a cricket!” He was sweaty and red, a strand of hair stuck to his forehead.
“How many times have I told you I don’t want you to bang the door like that?”
“Give me a big box. He’s going to suffocate in here.”
“Time for bed, and make it snappy. Your mother went to sleep a while ago, tired of waiting on you. And wash your face; you look like a gypsy. Your hands too.”
The boy obeyed, his eyes gleaming with excitement. When he came back from the kitchen with a clean face, he picked up the matchbox where he was keeping the cricket and took it to his room.
When he and his wife were old, dead even, his son would feel the same thing. When he is married and has children, one summer day, all of a sudden, on his way home from work, he will hunger for a silk skirt over bare legs.
He went out on the balcony once more. Night had fallen. He wiped his forehead and neck. Thirty-eight in the shade. Thirty-eight degrees in the shade. Same as his age. He felt a sting on the back of his hand. The mosquito had bitten him while he was looking at the garden. He realized the carnations were dying of thirst. The basil was yellow; it had always been scrawny. But he didn’t feel like watering, or doing anything.
“Son! Come water the carnations.”
The boy came out of his bedroom, his shirt hanging out of his pants.
“Did you find me a box for the cricket?”
“No. Tomorrow’s another day.”
The boy went back to his room. He felt like going after him and slapping him to make him water the carnations. He was sure the boy had heard him. “It doesn’t matter.” He didn’t feel like doing anything either. If it was less hot, he could have gone to the cinema. Gone out. Dropped everything and left.
The boy came back to the dining room and went up to him.
“Good night, Papà.”
He knew both of them were thinking about the unwatered carnations. He would go to bed too, and if he couldn’t sleep because of the heat, he would go out on the balcony and lie on the floor till morning. He took off his shirt, his trousers, all his clothes, and slipped into bed gently, to avoid waking his wife. Perhaps he would see her again tomorrow. His wife turned over. She was small and weak. She had been very sick three or four years ago and looked the worse for it. She tired easily and coughed all winter. The doctor said it wasn’t anything serious. All of a sudden, she sighed. A brief sigh, just enough to show she was alive. He was filled with grief. Yes, a deep grief, without really knowing why.
Guinea
Fowls
They had just moved. This was the first night in the new apartment. Everything was upside down, utter chaos: clothes not hung in the wardrobes, pans and plates on the dining room floor, lamps unassembled, bags of coal in the hall beside the sewing machine, two mirrors parked in a corner facing the wall, some paintings and a calendar on the table.
Quimet had slept poorly. Through a chink in the poorly adjusted shutter, a stream of light, straight as a sword, filtered into the room as soon as it was day, and with it came all the noise of the market. He dreamt that an older boy was eating a chocolate bar and turning black little by little.
His mother washed his face and combed his hair. He had a stubborn cowlick in the middle of his head that nothing could tame, a skinned knee, rather dirty nails, a brown freckle on his forehead, and ears that were somewhat fan-like.
“Go down and play. Just be sure you don’t leave the square. Here’s some bread and chocolate. When you’ve eaten it, come up and drink your milk. Be a good boy now and don’t eat the chocolate by itself.”
Wearing baggy, knee-length trousers, made from an old pair of his father’s, and a white, faded sweater that was a little too tight, Quimet went out onto the landing.
He bit into the slice of bread; when he finished it, he would eat the chocolate. It was better by itself: sweet and soft. It stuck to your teeth and the roof of your mouth. With his tongue he would gradually loosen it, and it would turn into heavenly syrup. Slowly, he trudged down the stairs, one hand on the banister, moving cautiously, a step at a time.
He went outside and sat down on the doorstep, feeling out of place. The plaça was round, not too large, intersected by four streets. The market stood in the center. It had four tall portals, each one facing a street, draped with large red-and-white-striped canvas curtains.
Quimet glanced around. The sky was cloudy, discolored, an autumn sky free of swallows. The garbage was piled up in front of him, at the edge of the sidewalk. As he munched calmly on the bread, he poked through the pile and discovered a bouquet of wilted flowers, a dark, still fresh carnation, cabbage and lettuce leaves, leak stems, and a few squashed tomatoes full of shiny white seeds. He was tempted to pick up the seeds and put them in the empty matchbox in his pocket; he could plant them in a flowerpot and put it on the balcony. But he was feeling lazy after
the sleepless night. His thumb started worming a hole into the chocolate bar.
Women scurried past with their baskets and disappeared into the market, from which a loud din emerged. An old woman with a wart on the tip of her chin marched resolutely by, carrying a shopping basket filled with goods. She almost bumped into him. A rabbit’s head was sticking out of one side of the basket. He was spellbound. Those huge ears and the pink, nervous-looking snout, the long whiskers just waiting to be pulled . . .
On the opposite side he saw a man dressed in blue approaching, pushing a wagon filled to the top with poultry cages. Hens and chickens poked their heads through the wooden bars. In the top cage, mixed with the hens, a white Asian goose was stretching its long neck. It had a striking yellow beak and black eyes like pins with glass heads.
If he were mine, Quimet thought, I’d tie a rope around his leg and take him for a walk. I’d call him Avellaneta, Little Hazelnut.
He stood up and followed the man with the wagon. When the man reached the entrance to the market, he began to unload the cages.
Quimet planted himself in front of the man and stared intently at him. The man picked up a cage and entered the market; Quimet followed. The boy had the impression that the goose had noticed. Those inexpressive eyes were fixed on him.
The light inside the market was rather gloomy. Huge stacks of vegetables and fruit sat on the shelves and counters. Vendors were talking to shoppers. An explosion of color and life. A large bushel of eggplants was flanked by two small baskets—one holding plump, ripe, red tomatoes, the other thin green beans. A complex scent of flowers and fish wafted from the stalls at the back.
Quimet and the wagon man reached the poultry area. From iron hooks hung dead rabbits, chickens with wings crossed meekly across their backs, dappled partridges, geese partially split open with fatty stomachs, their flesh bloody.
The Selected Stories of Mercè Rodoreda Page 3
