They didn’t realize that they were walking again, or that houses were passing them by, or that trees were trailing behind as more appeared, inevitable as fate.
“Oh, I lost the flowers,” she exclaimed, pausing nervously. “Maybe I left them in the doorway when I was playing with the changing colors, or maybe those men . . .” She stopped because to speak of the men was to confront him with that troubling memory. She bit her lips. She felt bad that she’d lost the flowers. She would have kept one in a book till it was dry as paper, had lost its perfume—it wasn’t even a gardenia—and when she stumbled across it in the future, it would have always evoked the color of night, the sound of the wind, her eighteen years, the years she felt she had lost as soon as she had gained them.
“The flowers? They’re not worth it.” He waited a moment, then smiled as he shrugged his shoulders and murmured, “Don’t give it another thought.”
The girl looked at him for a moment without speaking. She leaned her head to the side and gestured as if she were about to take his arm. Then she changed her mind.
“I don’t know why you’re upset over such an insignificant incident. It could have happened to anyone. I’m sure my being there made you feel inhibited; without me you’d have reacted differently. Now that you’ve told me things about yourself, I should tell you something about me.”
Her voice was strange, as if it she were straining to speak.
“You know what? It’s not true that I have a lover. I’ve never loved anyone. All my brother’s friends that liked me a little, I found them . . . I don’t know how to explain it. It’s difficult to say the things the way we think them or feel them. I mean, all the boys who have liked me up till now left me indifferent. It’s probably that I don’t like young men and older men scare me a bit. Sometimes I’m convinced that I’m suffering from some strange illness, because I feel good all alone in my room, with my books, my thoughts. I know my thoughts aren’t particularly lofty; I’m not trying to sound grand. I don’t really know why I ran way from the party. I went with my brother and his fiancée. I shouldn’t say it, but I don’t like that my brother’s engaged. We were best friends. No brother and sister ever got along better. Nor is it true that I have a heart condition. Sometimes I can feel it beating fast and it’s because . . . I’ll never find a substitute for my brother, someone who can be what my brother was to me.”
He felt a sadness rising from deep within him. He’d have given his life to be able to replace her brother.
“When I saw him dancing with her I felt terribly abandoned. I was filled with this furious desire to go home, gather together all the pictures of us when we were little and look at them one by one, to be able to feel myself again in all the places where they were taken. What is true is that I’m going to Paris, but it’s because my father’s French and he’s just signed a three-year contract. He’s an engineer and will be working on a dam. We’ll just be passing through Paris. Then we’ll be cooped up in a sleepy old town, and one day I’ll marry a man just like my father, who’ll come to me, as if he had been born old, with a certain tendency toward obesity . . .” She laughed.
They heard a clock strike three, resounding in the night, slowly, forlornly. The air was crisp, the stars twinkled like diamonds, the trees gave off a tender, freshwater scent. “And I’ll have a proper wedding. Or maybe I’ll devote myself to perfecting the education of my brother’s children when they visit us in summer.” She sighed deeply, affected by the insidious magic of the hour and the night. “I won’t marry for love or merely to serve my own interest. Or maybe I’ll marry for both these reasons. I’ll have an orderly house filled with jars and jars of marmalade and summer preserves made for winter and large wardrobes with neatly folded clothes. If I have children, they’ll have what I’ve had: heat in winter and the broad sea in summer. In other words, I’ll be a scullery-maid Titania.”
She gave a tired smile that turned unexpectedly into a laugh that was young and frank, crystalline.
“When I ran into you tonight, I suddenly wanted to invent another life for myself.”
“Me too. I’d been saving my money for three months so I could rent this costume, not even catching the tram, and I live in Gràcia but work on Carrer de la Princesa. When my father was alive we had everything we needed. One day he went to bed feeling very ill and never got up. What little we had disappeared with his illness and the funeral. It was really hard for me. I had to give up everything I enjoyed, all my plans. Everything. We were really alone, and I was the oldest child. I had to make a real show of pretense, so as not to add to my mother’s grief. It’s kind of ridiculous that I’m explaining all this, complaining. It shows a poor spirit. My life would make a great dime novel. Here I’d been saving for three months, thinking I’d have fun with my friends, but as soon as I saw myself in this costume, I was embarrassed. I did go out with my friends, but they were all with their girlfriends; and after we’d been in the park up on Tibidabo for a while, they disappeared without my realizing. I walked for a long time, I sat for a while on a bench by the funicular . . . but that’s not true. It’s painful to tell the truth. I went up Tibidabo because a friend of mine works in a restaurant there, and he told me to stop by and see him. He gave me the pastries we ate. I sat on the park bench, thinking how terribly boring life was, and gazed at the night, the lights of the city below me, till I was tired.”
“The kind of things that occur on the night of Carnival, no?”
•
Carnival had ended. The wind and rain had helped it die. We too have died a bit, he thought, or the ghosts we have left along the way. No one would be able to see them at the top of Avinguda del Tibidabo, with the pastries and champagne, by the gate with the perfume of the false gardenias, at the door where they had sheltered during the rain. It was all far away, indistinct, a bit absurd, as if it had never happened.
“Will you give me your address in France?”
“I don’t even know it yet.”
She, however, would never again remember that night. The sound of the train taking her away would erase the last vestiges of it. But he . . . he would never find another girl like her, with that smile, that hair. From time to time he would see her blurred outline standing in front of him, her image evoked by a certain perfume, a sigh of leaves, a swarm of ghostly stars at the back of the sky, a silence that suddenly manifests itself.
“You know what I’m going to do one day?” he said, his voice faltering, pronouncing each word distinctly, cautiously, as if walking a tightrope, afraid of falling into the impenetrable void of melancholy.
“No, I don’t.”
“I’ll go to the little square off Avinguda del Tibidabo and I’ll shout ‘Titania’ and listen for the echo. Then I’ll cry ‘Titania’ again and again till I tire. You know, perhaps it’s only when you’re young that you wish so desperately that now would last, that nothing we have would ever end. We wish it even more when what we have now seems the best thing possible.”
“I think you’re right. You see, my parents are pleased that we’re leaving, but for me . . . ? It’s like having my hand cut off. If my brother were coming with us, I don’t know, maybe I’d be excited about moving to a new country, new people, other friends. But my brother is staying, he’s getting married before we leave. All these streets that are part of me, this sky, everything that has made me what I am—it’ll all be lost. Some of it will vanish within a few days, some a few months from now, till finally after many years—”
They had reached Consell de Cent and crossed Passeig de Gràcia. The asphalt, still shiny from the rain, was beginning to have large dark patches of dry spots. The night would soon end. A faint suggestion of light began to appear on the horizon, at the end of the streets, above the houses, in the direction of the sea. Soon the sky would prevail and the stars would begin to fade one by one.
The girl stopped in front of a luxurious house. Through the large door made of
iron and glass you could see the carpeted marble stairs. That’s it, it’s all over, he thought. He would have liked to find himself lying on a beach beside her, listening to the waves.
“I’m home” she exclaimed cheerfully, with that abrupt change from sadness to joy that was so characteristic of her. “I can say it now: when we met those men, I thought I might never come back.”
She wasn’t sure what to say, how she should say good-bye to the boy who’d been her companion for the last few hours. She was a little sorry she had confided in him. If she had the power of a real fairy, with a wave of her magic wand she would have made him disappear, or maybe turned him into a tree, and she wouldn’t have to think any more about it. But he was there by her side, filled with passion. It struck her that she might never rid herself of him. She was filled with a sense of cruelty. It’s not cruel; it’s just that I’m sleepy. A sweet lethargy pervaded her. Her eyelids grew heavy, and she struggled to keep them open. She wanted to be in her own room, take off her clothes, put on fresh pajamas, lie flat in her bed and sleep a dreamless night.
It was as if he’d been bewitched. He couldn’t take his eyes off the reflections in the door; he could see the branches of a tree, its newborn leaves swaying in the air, dappling the glass with lights and shadows.
“The time has come for us to separate,” he said with a sigh, then added with a voice filled with regret, “but first I’d like to ask you something.”
Through the mist of her exhaustion she thought, If he can just ask quickly . . . because exhaustion had enveloped her, her eyes, arms, legs, conquering her whole body and spirit. She felt as if she had never slept and her eighteen years of not sleeping demanded to be rectified in one single night.
When she didn’t respond, he struggled to find the right words and continued, “I’ve been thinking about it for a while, but I don’t know how to say it. Before I leave, I’d like to—your beautiful hair—”
The words flew from his thoughts, like birds from a branch, and he was left with only a stammer. He didn’t know how to ask her if he could touch her hair.
“I think you have some confetti in—”
“Why don’t you get it out?”
She smiled at him, as if encouraging him.
The boy reached out his arm, his hand trembling as if it weren’t part of his body. He touched her hair, caressing it.
“Shall we say good-bye now?”
“Adéu.”
She opened the door, but before disappearing into the shadow of the stairs, she turned her head and said tenderly,
“Adéu.”
“Adéu.”
But she probably didn’t hear him. The door had shut with a dry, metallic clang.
•
The boy stood for a moment before the house, hesitating, suddenly feeling restored to the night, the street, to his most naked reality, as if the sound of the door banging had cut him off from another world. He had nothing left, only that silken touch on his fingertips, perhaps a bit of golden dust, the kind butterflies leave. I’ve fallen madly in love, he thought. Slowly he began walking beneath the trees. A gust of wind stirred the leaves around him. He felt the cold nipping the back of his thigh and instinctively felt for the rip. He started walking faster.
“What will they say when I return the costume?”
A stray dog spotted him from a distance, ran over, and started following him. An alarm clock rang on the opposite side of the street, disconsolate, as if trying to awaken a corpse.
Engaged
“You haven’t said anything for a while—is anything wrong?”
“What’s the matter with me? Nothing, nothing at all.”
“You’re so worried you didn’t remember today’s my birthday. I’m not scolding you; it’s just that I was so excited to turn eighteen!”
They strolled slowly. He was taller and rested his arm on her shoulder; she held him by the waist. Waves of cool air rippled through the branches of the linden trees along the Rambla as the last rays of sun began to fade, gilding the leaves.
“Let’s stop to look at the flowers.”
They had to wait for a tram and a post office van to pass before crossing the street. The tram stirred up dust and specks fell from the trees. They stopped in front of a shop window: it was like paradise, carefully guarded behind the glass that reflected their images. Roses, branches of white lilac, purple iris with fleshy petals dappled with yellow, bouquets of sweet peas (purple, blue, pink)—all of them breathing their final hours of quiet, insolent beauty. Behind the flowers, in the semi-darkness of the shop, a dark hand with painted nails moved forward to grasp two lilac branches. Several white petals floated down onto the iris.
“Okay?”
“What do you mean, ‘Okay’?”
“I mean, have you looked enough?”
“Me? I’d never tire of looking. See that rose? The one that’s swaying because the woman touched it when she picked up the lilac. It’s so dark it’s almost black. Have you ever seen roses that dark?”
“I don’t understand your obsession with flowers. All that . . .” he made a gesture with his head as if shaking off something that suddenly vexed him. “They only last a day. If the florist left them in the window and you stopped by tomorrow at this time, you wouldn’t even bother to look at them. Shall we go?”
“Just a moment.”
“I’m dying of thirst.”
“You know what I’d like?”
“What?”
“For you to buy me some flowers one day, just a small bouquet.”
“Don’t you know giving flowers is passé?”
They continued their walk. The sky was almost white, practically devoid of color, and the sun shone dimly from behind thin clouds.
They entered a little café that was empty.
“Want to sit outside?”
“No, the tram makes too much noise.”
They chose a table in the corner. From where they were seated they could see the shiny electric coffeemaker that hissed as it spewed plumes of thick steam. Sitting in the café they felt a sense of comfort and freedom. It was all so clean and welcoming: the red leather booths along the wall; the bottles arranged in rows on shelves of light, varnished wood; the mirrors with their reflection. Even the view outside—the edges of the trees, the façades, the sky. Everything seemed recently made, unobserved. A different, gentle world.
“You have really small hands, don’t you?”
They were folded on top of her red purse that bore the brass letters a.m. Soft nervous hands. He ran his index finger over her pale fingernails, which were an indefinable pinkish-white color.
“Let me see your life line.”
He took her left hand and began to study her palm.
“You’ll live longer than me. Senyora Ramon Esplà, widow.”
“Since we must die, better that we both die on the same day.”
Next to hers, his hands were wide and hard, “a man’s hands.” She was filled with a wild desire to kiss them. At times they reminded her of a bird.
The fat, bald waiter was leaning against a column; he had forgotten about them. He was gazing out at the street, occasionally running a hand over his shiny head.
“Hey! Two beers!”
The man roused and turned around. His eyes were dreamy.
“Right away.”
“There’s something I wanted to mention, but please don’t get angry.” She looked into his limpid and penetrating blue eyes. “I’m nervous because exams are almost here and I’m behind. In order to catch up, I need to study full-time for at least two weeks. I mean without seeing each other. You know what the history professor is like. He acts like he’s speaking at an academic conference and doesn’t realize we’re no more than . . .”
“Two beers.”
The waiter placed the glasses on the table and glanc
ed tenderly at the couple.
“How much?”
The boy paid. This way, they could leave when they felt like it, without having to clap their hands. The waiter brought the change, picked up the tip, and returned to his place by the column.
“Do you mind if we don’t see each other for a couple of weeks?” she asked.
“Why can’t we see each other?”
“I’ve just told you, because we’d spend too much time going out, and exams are almost here.”
He looked at her guardedly. She was drinking, her lips puckered around the white foam.
“Why can’t we see each other like always? Are you looking for an excuse? If you don’t feel like seeing me, just tell me.”
“Ramon!” she begged with anxious eyes. She put the beer down on the table and repeated: “Ramon.”
Suddenly he picked up her purse.
“Why did you do that?”
“I don’t know. I just needed to. May I?”
“Of course.”
She watched disconcertedly as he opened it, inspected it, and began to empty it. A wisp of hair fell across his pale, adolescent forehead, and his hands trembled a bit. He placed everything on the table. The lipstick, the green enamel compact with the dragon inlay in the center, the wallet. The address book he had given her the month before. He had been so self-conscious: it was his first present to her.
“Why are you examining everything?”
“Does it bother you?”
His eyes were hard, a look she’d never seen before.
“Not at all, but . . .”
He read the addresses of the people he knew. The English teacher with the telephone number and the dates and hours of classes: Tuesday, Thursday, Saturday from four to five. The addresses of her hairdresser and her two friends, Marta Roca and Elvira Puig.
After he had removed everything, he put it all back inside. He closed the purse, looked at it closely, then gave it back to her.
The Selected Stories of Mercè Rodoreda Page 8
