She heard the sound of water ripping. The body floated a moment, then suddenly disappeared as if someone had jerked it. A flock of birds screeched as it crossed the calm sky. There were many of them, flying in broad rows, carving a black path through the blue.
She faced the wind, walking stiffly—as if with wooden legs—up the same path the old man had taken, following the birds’ screeches.
•
In the distance you could see four scattered houses. By the road, in a patio beneath an arbor of ivy and roses, stood a few tables with iron chairs. She was seated at the back. The setting sun blazed across the sky, and far away the winding river flowed blood red.
She hadn’t walked far. From the bridge to the arbor was a scant half hour, but she had sat on the ground for a long time gazing at the river. She was exhausted, her back and sides ached. The milk from her swollen breasts had dampened her blouse. She was thirsty, and a vein was pulsing on the left side of her neck.
Two men were coming along the road. They stopped, leaned their bicycles against the wall, crossed the patio, and went inside the building.
“I see you got a new customer, mestressa,” the man said, addressing the woman who ran the café. He was middle-aged and had shiny black eyes, dark cheeks, a dark chin, and what appeared to be rough skin. Drops of sweat covered his forehead, and he brushed them away with his hand. His shirt was stuck to his chest, soaking wet.
“What do you say, Belcacem?”
He elbowed his companion, a small, olive-skinned Arab with a large scar across his cheek. The Arab laughed, his teeth gleaming for an instant.
From behind the counter the old woman, a black scarf around her head, pulled out two glasses.
“She’s been here for close to an hour. What are you doing at the quarry with all that blasting?”
The water from the faucet flowed furiously into the zinc basin, splashing the edges with fat, round drops that immediately dribbled down the sides. The woman picked up a bottle of vermouth. The cork squeaked.
“Passing time, mestressa, passing time.” The man picked up the glass, held it up to the light. “Evening, Violeta.”
The servant girl was wiping the tables. She was wearing a short skirt, and when she leaned over you could see the tops of her stockings.
“You gonna say yes to me tonight, Violeta?”
The Arab had finished his vermouth and was standing at the door looking out.
“I won’t have anything to do with family men,” she replied. Her cheeks were round and innocent. She had one lazy eye.
The man by the counter clucked his tongue, ran a finger under his nose, and called out, “You hear what she said, Belcacem?”
The Arab turned around, “Shut up. Look what the girl’s doing out there.”
His companion went over to him, and they stared at the girl through the strings of bamboo beads that served as a curtain. She was seated quietly under the arbor with an empty bottle in front of her. It had been filled with gasosa, a lemon-lime soda water. Her eyes were closed, and her hand was inside her blouse, touching her breast. The old woman turned on the faucet again. When the girl outside heard the sound of water, she opened her eyes and glanced around with a frightened look.
“She asked for an anise,” Violeta said, all excited. “When I asked if she wanted it straight or with water, she gave me a strange look, like she just dropped from the moon. I don’t think she’s all there.”
The old woman came out from behind the counter and looked through the beaded curtain at the girl.
“She must not be from around here,” Violeta said. “I asked her again how she wanted her anise and she said, ‘Bring me some gasosa.’ Must’ve changed her mind. As I was walking away, I turned back, ’cause I thought she said something. But it wasn’t to me.” She paused, raised her head, and looked at the men. “She was talking to herself.” Violeta stopped drying her hands on her apron and started laughing, a squeaky laugh that sounded like a rat.
“I’ll get her chattering, mestressa, you’ll see. Bring us some wine. Come along, Belcacem.”
He pulled aside the bamboo beads and walked out, the Arab following him. When they reached the table, the girl skittered like a frightened animal.
“No reason to be scared, princess. He’s black, but he’s got a good heart.”
They sat down at her table. She stared at them. One of her eyes had a burst blood vessel, and her black, oily hair fell across her face. She brushed it aside with a bony hand, her fingers extended as if they were made of stone. A rose petal floated down onto the table. The thick smell of burning oil wafted from the kitchen, blending with the perfume of evening and roses.
Violeta placed three glasses and a bottle of wine on the table. She went back inside, but stopped at the threshold, staring curiously at them, her mouth open, eyes round. She slipped a hand under her skirt and absentmindedly scratched her thigh. The beaded strings of the curtain flapped against each other, making a sound like the clacking of lace bobbins. It kept her from hearing anything outside. She watched the Arab hand the girl a glass, but she shook her head. After the two men had drunk and refilled their glasses, the girl picked up hers and raised it to her lips. It seemed as if she were going to hold it there forever, but finally she downed it in one sip, her eyes shut. Belcacem whispered in her ear. Only the back of the other man was visible. From time to time his shoulders shook as if he were laughing.
The old woman came out of the kitchen and went behind the counter, locked the drawer, and pocketed the key.
“So is that how you help me fix supper, Violeta, you lazy good-for-nothing? Leave the men alone; they’re in the mood for playing around.”
Reluctantly Violeta walked away and entered the smoke-filled kitchen. She took off the white apron she used for waiting on customers and put on the navy blue one hanging behind the door. She lifted the lid on the frying pan and stirred the potatoes. Some had burned. Through the window the sky was mauve-colored with a band of pink in the distance. The patio was darkening. The old woman switched on the light. The glasses on the sideboard and the aluminum pans hanging on the wall started to glimmer.
Suddenly, outside, they heard cries and the sound of breaking glass.
“You beast!”
Violeta ran out of the kitchen, followed by the old woman, and they stood at the door to the patio. The Arab had both hands around the girl’s arm and was twisting it, to make her drop the broken bottle. She was struggling, hitting his face furiously with her free hand. The other man was wrapping his hand in a handkerchief. There was blood on the table and on the ground. “You beast!” Finally the broken bottle dropped. “Leave her alone. Can’t you see she’s got the devil in her? Leave her alone.” The girl let out a scream as she stood there panting, rubbing her hurt arm. Then she slowly walked away. When she reached the road, she took off running. Violeta felt her head spinning, but the old woman gave her a shove, “Come on, clean the table, and make it snappy.” When she saw the blood up close, her eyes filmed over and everything whirled about. She could hear a distant voice, “Just what we needed, a beast like her.” Then she heard nothing more.
•
She lay on the ground, facing the river, beneath the iron bridge. Everything was dark: sky and water. Slowly, the damp air spread a thick fog that enveloped the darkest shadows in a milky sea. Her hair was wet, her legs cold. A green light from the bridge wounded the water near her feet. She removed a handkerchief from her pocket, unbuttoned her blouse, and placed it between her breast and the wet blouse. Feeling better, she closed her eyes.
The river made a dull noise, like someone breathing, broken occasionally by a secret splash. Not even the hum of an insect or the screech of a bird could be heard. Far downstream, muffled by the weight of the air, the intermittent echoes of a motor reached her, creating the impression of a pulsing shadow. From the other side of the bridge came the clear whistle of a maneuveri
ng locomotive and the metallic clank of freight cars hitting each other. The silence had unshackled the sounds and lessened her unease, leaving her with only a slight tension in her stomach and an acid taste behind her parched lips.
She opened her eyes and noticed that at the very back of the sky, beyond the river, a reddish aura had permeated the fog. She felt as if she could again hear the wood crackling in the fire, the smoke choking her. For about a month she had been sleeping alone in a shack on the edge of an unused strip of land near the road to the base. She’d lost her job and her house, and the dishwasher in the restaurant where she had worked had offered her the key. It was a late September evening, foggy like tonight, but a foul-smelling, fluid fog rose from the marches, thick with angry mosquitoes. She didn’t hear the two men enter. They must have used a wire to open the door. When she awoke she glimpsed two shadows by her bed. Both of them covered her—first one, then the other. She knew one of them slightly, but she’d never set eyes on the other. Both stank of wine and machine oil. They argued in the dark about who would be first. The door stood open and the wind carried in the fog, conveying the nervous sound of hammering from the base. Then they left. She heard them roaming around outside; they seemed to be laughing. Just as she was about to fall asleep, a gust of smoke made her cough. At first she thought it was the fog. A tentative red glow was coming from the corner where she kept her trunk. By the time she realized that the shack was on fire she could hardly breathe. She had to jump out of the window, unable to salvage anything. The following day at the police station they asked her one question after another. The officer was a young, abrupt man who wanted to know why she was sleeping in the shack, how she had gotten in. She explained about the two men. An inspector accompanied her to the base to see if she could recognize them. She spotted one of the men standing by a crane but didn’t say anything. As they walked along, the inspector kept telling himself, “She ain’t very attractive now.” One morning a month or two later, she vomited for the first time.
•
Suddenly she realized that the wind had stopped. She heard footsteps and held her breath. When she opened her eyes, she saw a shadow approaching. Her heart pounded. The beat was quick and irregular, like a frightened, trapped animal. The man stopped beside her.
“If you’re waiting for the train, you’ve got a while yet. No express train passes through till the early morning.”
He lit a cigarette and held up the match to her face.
“You the girl from this afternoon? If you stay out in this damp, you’ll be full of aches and pains.”
On the other side of the river the sky had turned dark orange, as if burnished by the air. Higher up, it was a dense black velvet. The motor in the distance was beginning to sound tired.
“Me? It got me in the knee.”
In the flickering flame of the match, his eyes looked shiny and pale, his beard and mustache white. His cigarette shook. He removed it from his lips, glanced at it to see if it were lit, and tossed the match away. It circled as it fell, blazing for an instant in the grass. An impenetrable darkness separated them.
“You better be getting home. That baby of yours must be having a screaming fit, what with you here. You think I don’t know what you’re waiting for?”
The old man took a few steps and disappeared. The moon rose, round, blood red, like a large red-hot metal disk on the point of disappearing, sharply defined, ripe, dead. The frame of the bridge turned blacker as it emerged from the shadows. The river flowed with a russet shimmer.
Her chest hurt; it felt like it would burst. She slipped a hand under her blouse. Her breasts were hard as rock and her handkerchief soaking wet. The wind had cleansed the night, and the moon had scattered phosphorescent pink dust across the sky. A moment before there had been only a great wall of darkness, but now it had grown transparent. Dark shadowy objects materialized, and the insidious sounds of the night became audible. A piercing anguish overcame her, causing her to moan. Her pulse throbbed. The sporadic sound of wings came from a nearby low-lying shrub. The shadows, the glimmering water, the muted sound of animals in the grass, the pink lakes in the sky—everything seemed like incomprehensible signs meant for someone else. Like the cries of the man at the arbor, the taste of the wine, the rose petals that fell onto the table. Like the strange words of the old man. Signs from some other place. She propped an elbow on the ground and leaned forward. A violent shudder ran up her arm, and her eyes bulged. She bit her hand with rage. She heard a splash, sharper than before. There are fish that jump and fish that devour. Where was she now? A tiny shape at the bottom of the river, surrounded by swift, silent shadows that approach, causing a ripple, halt for an instant, then move away. The current must have swept her downstream. But the rock was large. If her breasts didn’t hurt so much, she might still be able to rest, lie down, rest. With great difficulty she stood up, panting. She felt as if her legs had turned to soft clay that only hardened little by little. When she reached the edge of the water, a branch scratched her hand. She tore some leaves from the shrub, then frantically closed her palm. It burned, as if she had hurt herself. Her feet sank into the mud, the cold water climbing up her legs, driving them forward, like a slow wind, glacial and thick. A black nightmarish wind. She hesitated a moment. A dreadful terror quickened her breathing, and a muscle tightened around her neck like a rope. She took two more steps. An icy tongue licked her stomach and breasts. Then the water carried her away. For a moment she thrashed about, her mouth and eyes closed. Above her she could feel something closing, forever. Water, cold, shadow. All at once she ceased struggling.
The
Beginning
He couldn’t have told you how he had gotten the ink stain. As he waited for the tram, he glanced down at his trousers in despair. They were his only reasonably decent ones. There were three spots of blue-black ink on the right knee, two small ones and one the size of a cherry. No, much larger than a cherry. As large as what? An apple, he thought anxiously. The trousers were the color of café amb llet, and as the ink dried, the spot turned darker and seemed to spread.
“So, I see you stained your trousers?”
Senyor Comes was an old acquaintance. They rode the tram together in the morning and afternoon.
“You should have put water on it right away. There’s nothing that stains quite like ink. I had to have some trousers dyed once. Maybe they weren’t as light as the ones you’re wearing, but even so, there was no other solution.”
He wasn’t listening. All he could still see were Senyoreta Freixes’s eyes. She was the typist. He had been so irritated when she lost the files, seven files, that he had snapped at her: “Nothing depresses me as much as having to work with imbeciles.” She had looked at him in surprise, her eyes welling up. “Oh!” was the only thing she had mustered the courage to stammer.
“Here it comes.”
The obese and cordial Senyor Comes had gestured at the tram with his head. It was crowded, and people were huddled on the running board. As always, Senyor Comes was the first on. It was a specialty of his, elbowing his way through, using his belly, his childlike smile. No one protested.
The tram started with a jerk. Houses, windows, balconies drifted past. The Garatge Internacional, the Cooperative, the Tennis Club. Everything passed in the same order as each day, fated, draining. The tram emptied out slightly, and they sat down.
“I’ve already bought the ticket,” Senyor Comes said with a mysterious air, giving his friend a little slap on the thigh.
Once a month, for close to five years, they had bought and shared a lottery ticket. They had never won anything, but every month Senyor Comes would say to him with a smile, “We’re getting closer.”
When Senyor Comes noticed his friend reaching for his pocket, he stopped him. “Don’t bother. We’ll work it out at the first of the month. How’s the boy doing?”
“The boy? Better, thanks.”
When he reached ho
me he headed straight to the dining room. The sun streaming in from the gallery made the furniture look older, the corners more dusty, the curtains grayer. Everything looked aged, had lost its freshness.
He wife moved back and forth to the kitchen. She had just set the table. She had gained weight. He kissed her perfunctorily on the forehead, sat down, and opened the newspaper.
“What did you do to your trousers? What’s that!”
“I know . . . Senyor Comes said the only solution was to have them dyed.”
“Everything always happens at the same time. Why this month, when we have the boy’s medicine and the doctor?”
“How’s he doing? Anything new?”
“No. Doctor Martí says tomorrow we can let him get up. But, what is it with you?”
Here we go. She’s realized something’s troubling me. His wife’s knack for grasping his moods had seemed like a blessing when they were courting. It had been reassuring to feel himself understood, to know she could read his state of mind, anticipate it, and he could say, “I’m feeling down, though I don’t really know why. Maybe I’m just worried about the exams.” But more and more that infallible intuition of hers caused him anguish. He felt naked, defenseless. He would have wished to have a bit of a secret life. The thing that most irritated him was that he would begin explaining everything he didn’t want to disclose at her slightest allusion. Occasionally he would decide to keep quiet, his silence an act of discipline, but his will always faltered. He was incapable of keeping anything from her.
“Something upset me this morning. That’s how I got the ink stains. I got nervous and knocked over the ink pot.”
He explained to her about the seven lost files.
“I said every disagreeable thing one can say to a person.”
He saw her face light up. Her large eyes, usually expressionless, shone, and her tallowy, rather sunken cheeks turned rosy. His wife had the thin lips of a blunt, worried person.
The Selected Stories of Mercè Rodoreda Page 10
