The Selected Stories of Mercè Rodoreda

by Mercè Rodoreda

  The first day I left the house, I felt strong and young. Oh, yes. I would win. But it was essential that I meet her in order to know what weapon to choose. Strolling through the crowds, surrounded by noise, the brightness of the radiant day, I realized that I loved my husband deeply. I hailed a taxi and gave Eliana’s address. During the days I was shut in the house I had planned what I would do. Surely Eliana had not disappeared for good. The letter said she “was going away with her family for a while, but she is uncertain for how long.” As I crossed the threshold of the building, my hands were as icy as the day I read the letters in the café, when I was overwhelmed by a sense of absence, of not being the one in control and making the decisions, feeling that I was someone else obeying orders given by myself. I walked up the stairs to the second floor. My icy hands began to sweat. I rang the bell. A large woman opened the door with a smile. “Senyoreta Eliana?” “Sorry, try ringing the apartment next door, maybe the neighbors who moved in when she left can help you.” If the kindhearted woman, full of consideration, had not stood in the door, waiting for me to ring, I would have rushed down the stairs breathlessly. But I rang. A girl, about eleven, opened the door. She had plaid ribbons around her braids and a vivacious face filled with curiosity. “Senyoreta Eliana?” She didn’t seem to understand. “I mean, the senyoreta who used to live in this apartment. Would you happen to know where she is now? Did she leave her address?” The girl ran inside, calling, “Mamà, Mamà.” A moment passed. The neighbor was still standing at her door. Soon I heard voices from the back of the apartment and steps approaching. A youngish woman appeared, in a bathrobe, a jar of face cream in her hand. As she talked, she continued to plunge two fingers in the cream, spreading it on her face with circular movements. “Looking for Eliana? Yes, she left us her address in case there was a message; you see, the concierge didn’t much care for her. But she moved such a long time ago that I’m afraid I’ve lost it. You know how it is with children. In any event, check with the concierge; maybe she’ll be nice to you. I’m sure she has it.” She closed the door with a “Come along, girl.” The two women and the girl disappeared as if they had been sucked inside.

  The concierge had gone out for a moment, so I waited. She arrived, weighted down by packages and a basket full of vegetables. “How can I help you?” she asked as she placed the packages on a table, without even a glance at me. When she had finished, she looked me straight in the face. “What is it?” “By any chance would you have Senyoreta Eliana’s address?” “Ah, Eliana. Yet again! I thought the fuss was finally over.” “If I’m inconveniencing you . . .” “No, not you. Since she moved, not a month goes by without someone asking for her or bringing her letters.” “Letters?” I asked, my heart pounding. “Ah yes, the letters, the mystery surrounding them . . .” “So you have her address?” “Hers? I can give you her friend’s address if you wish. She used to stop by here quite often. Always in a hurry, never even a ‘Bon dia.’ Who do these ladies think they are? I too can go around with my head high.” Still grumbling, she went inside and came back out with a slip of paper in her hand. “Here, you see? Elisa R., Carrer Tenerife 26.” My head began to spin, and I had to lean against the wall. Realizing I felt ill, the concierge had me sit down and brought me a cordial. I remember a bouquet of artificial roses in the center of the table, the sideboard lined with blue glasses. Through an open door at the end of the hall I could see a patio and hear pigeons cooing.

  From my diary:

  A garden. A cool, shady garden. A garden with no flowers. Wisteria climbing the trellis by the front door, the occasional rustling of leaves. A Japanese room. A screen showing pink ibis, their wings extended, surrounded by yellow chrysanthemums. A small black lacquered table with mother of pearl inlay. Almond branches. A magnificent tiger skin lying on the champagne-colored rug. Rare luxury, a bit overpowering. A woman much older than me. White skin. Very white. Black, rather small eyes and smooth, arched eyebrows. Tall and thin. A voice . . . Yes, above all the voice. Just hearing it would make you fall in love with her. As I faced her, I was forced to view myself: a disorderly, brusque, temperamental girl. A failure. How can one possibly acquire her degree of poise and elegance? Somehow I managed to stammer, “I hope you will forgive me. I announced that Mârius Roig had sent me; that’s not the case, nor is he ill. I have come because I wanted to. I am his wife.” At the very least I expected a word, a change of expression, a bit of curiosity. She gazed at me, unperturbed. Had I said nothing more, I am sure the visit would have ended here. “I’ve come because I wanted to meet you. It was such an overwhelming desire that I couldn’t control it.” “What is it that you wish to know?” “Nothing.” “What do you want?” “Nothing.” “Only to meet me?” “Only that.” “Has he spoken to you of me?” I didn’t reply. “Is it because you feel that I stand between you and him?” “No.” The question had been so humiliating that I’d been forced to lie. “So?” “If I ask you something directly, will you respond?” “What is it?” “Do you love him?” It was as if the ibis on the screen had moved. It took her a while to reply. I could see her searching for something that would sound good, diplomatic. “Some things never die.” I wanted to applaud. Even though I saw that she had chosen her reply as one might choose the smallest needle amongst many, still, she had hurt me. She had said it to hurt me and had succeeded. She spoke the words so calmly, with such control, such a penetrating voice. She hurt me, but I knew it was true. I felt as if suddenly I had been pinned to the wall and left there.

  •

  I was consumed by the desire to die. Not to kill myself, simply to die. To kill yourself you must have the will, the energy. To die, you need nothing. Suddenly I found support in Elvira, and here I had always believed her an enemy.

  “I remember the day this Senyora Elisa first visited the house, enveloped in fur and perfume. I think she came about an inheritance. She completely transformed Senyor, like turning a sock inside out. How he changed! He was so cheerful, always in a good mood, but after that hardly a ‘Bon dia’ to me. Everything went smoothly while her husband was in the sanatorium. Visits, phone calls, urgent letters. Oh yes, she came to the house. She’d march right in as if she owned it, giving orders like she was the mestressa. She showed up and wrecked Mârius’s life, poor Senyor. Her goal was to make him fall in love with her. She needed a man, forgive me for being so frank, but lots of women are like that. Did they take a trip together? Many. You have to remember that the affair lasted five years. Straight away I saw how selfish she was. And all during this time, she’d visit her husband. She’d go to the sanatorium, sometimes stay a week. I could tell just by looking at Senyor’s face. When she was away, he wouldn’t set foot out of the house, all sad and dull, looking like a sick animal. But the husband regained his health, and she began to withdraw. With plenty of fancy excuses, she abandoned Senyor like an old shoe. But you shouldn’t be thinking about these things. Can’t you see how much he loves you? As soon as I laid eyes on you, I thought to myself ‘He’ll be happy with this girl.’ You can tell right away you’re a fine person. But it’s not good to be sad, believe me, it’s not good.”

  That is how I learned what it is to have “seny,” good sense.

  •

  I went out this afternoon with Elvira. We visited her niece Maria, who is married and has an eleven-month-old baby. The sun was scorching, not a bit of air. We crossed a patio at the back of which was a printing press. Through the open window you could see an office and hear the sound of a linotype. To the right of the patio was a glass door, a window with red geraniums on either side of it. We went straight into the dining room. The table was covered with a blue-and-white checkered oilcloth. Maria was sewing. A cradle covered by a bride’s veil stood in the corner, and a sewing machine beneath the window. We had a bite to eat. Maria had fixed sandwiches and prepared fresh peaches and pears doused in sweet wine and sugar. The baby woke up. His skin was like milk, his eyes like stars. He was whimpering. He must have been hot and in a bad moo
d. Maria breastfed him. Her husband came in at six. He works at the printing office. He went off to wash and change. When he returned to the dining room, he was naked from the waist up, wearing blue trousers. Maria handed the boy to Elvira and served her husband some fruit salad. As she did so, he put his arm around her and pulled her forcefully toward him. “Keep still,” she exclaimed, but she didn’t move away. He ran his hand through her hair, tangling it. Then she sat down. But her eyes were fixed on her husband’s chest, staring at his dark, glossy skin, fascinated.

  •

  Sometimes, when I am alone, or when I am bathing, or when Mârius falls asleep before me I think: my husband. And when he sleeps, I place my hand on his side and feel his rhythmic breathing against my palm and think: my husband.

  •

  My first reaction was rather vulgar: I wanted him to find me attractive. I had never been concerned about appearance, but now I needed a weapon. Clothes. I would turn myself into an object of admiration. In three months I succeeded in becoming different. I devoted all my time to me: my hands, his eyes, my body. Roger fell in love with me. The only thing I accomplished was something I didn’t wish. I was in love with my husband, and I wanted him to love me deeply. Roger’s devotion to me led me to realize that I represented very little to Mârius. I had entered his life in a natural, easy way, like the sun that rises every morning. He had me so close by that he didn’t notice me.

  I would have liked to leave the house and him. Had I never known Mârius, I could have. Where could I go? Back to my silly art classes? To my uncle’s house, which I had left because we didn’t get along? From time to time a secret hope came over me. What if everything were dead? What if the Senyora, the ibis, the romantic trips were all dead and buried? But if everything were dead, he wouldn’t keep the letters. They were his treasure, his obsession. The briefcase, the letters inside. Briefcase and letters always close by, the key in his pocket. Had he realized that three were missing? Why had he allowed his past to become my present? Why had he allowed my love to . . . ?

  I was with Roger on one occasion and asked, “Mârius took a trip to Italy, didn’t he?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Nothing.”

  Some days I was filled with lethargy. To get out of bed and dress was torture. Why had I allowed a ghost to separate us? To keep from thinking about her and the letters, I became determined to love him desperately. As if each night of love making were the last. The more my passion was excited, the more depressed I became thinking about that woman. His loyalty to her memory stood between us, breathing gently and, no doubt, panting.

  One day I couldn’t bear it any longer, and I brought up the subject. It was a gentle spring afternoon, like those I used to enjoy with him.

  “I’ve never demanded anything of you. May I ask you something?”

  “What?” he said, glancing at me in alarm, as if he guessed what I meant.

  “The letters.”

  “What letters?”

  “Your letters, the ones you always carry in your briefcase.”

  “I don’t know what you are referring to.”

  I immediately understood, yet still I insisted.

  “I realize that I should make an effort to ignore them. I wish I could. It’s impossible. They exist, and they cause me pain. Tear them up. I beg of you, tear them up.”

  He reached into his jacket pocket: “Here, we are going to the theater this evening with Roger. You need a distraction. I think you will enjoy it.” And he walked away. When he reached the door, he turned, “Never speak of this again. I would appreciate it.”

  Mârius always kissed me on the forehead when he left. Not that day.

  •

  Roger, dearest Roger. Until now I have tried to be objective in everything I have written. But I can no longer. I began writing this account for me, but in the end, it is for you. Because you have loved me. Because I have hurt you and you don’t deserve it. Because I need a friend; I need to feel that I am not alone. I remember you with affection and that memory helps me now. But I have never loved you. Despite the hatred I now feel for Mârius, I have loved only him. He has been the center of my life.

  Do you recall the performance of Ondina? When the years have passed, if you should think of me, remember me as I was that night. I made you believe things that did not exist. Forgive me. I dressed for you, I smiled for you. Please forgive me. For the first time that night I thought seriously of killing myself. They say that a suicide’s last wish always comes true. I thought of killing myself as an act of vengeance against Mârius, to ruin his life, so that he would love me more than . . .

  Do you remember the dress? Blue. You said, “Waves.” And I wanted to die. I sat between you: Mârius on my right, you on my left. I was wearing the diamond dove that Mârius had given me in my hair. Men looked at me. You commented on it. Mârius seemed absent. “He’s thinking about the letters. Thinking about her. When I am dead he will never think of her again.” You gave me a prescription for gardenal tablets. I wanted two tubes of them. A few days after you prescribed the first, I told you I had lost the prescription. I thought one might not be enough. I wanted to be sure. I wanted to die. I thought of Odette, who was taking a course in ethics at the Sorbonne. She didn’t die. I didn’t want anyone to be affected—as I had been when I visited Odette—by a person who slowly returns from death, her face all green, in a large hospital room filled with rows of beds.

  Do you remember the summer in Pyla? It was my last effort to live. The smell of pine trees, the dark dunes, the lichen the sea spewed out every night. The couple we talked about. Lovers. What mysterious secret had they discovered? The soul or the flesh?

  I know that I am inexperienced, that I should have accepted what was handed to me, not looked beyond, not tried to speculate. Perhaps happiness consists in the capacity for resignation. But I want more. I would have wished for the letters to have ceased to exist. Her as well. For a few days I succeeded in forgetting. Only pine trees, sea, sun, silence. My husband sleeping beside me. “If I commit suicide, he will never again sleep like this.”

  You said, “Acute neurasthenia. Your nervous system is such that even a change in light can unbalance it.” Do you understand now, Roger, what was making me ill? We came back in September, and I went to our café. I wanted to relive that first day right down to the smallest detail, poisoning myself even more. I returned to her house, to catch a glimpse of her from the street, to torment myself. The trees were just beginning to turn golden. I returned to the pension where I had lived for three months, truly lived, without anguish, without suspicions, sure of everything. Of him and of myself.

  •

  From my diary:

  At times I am almost delirious with the desire to find someone who will love me deeply. But this someone could only be Mârius during the period that we were happy.

  •

  I told Elvira, “I’ll be home late this evening, and as soon as I come in, I want you to tell Mârius that he has a phone call.” I had already taken my little suitcase to the station with the black crêpe dress and the shoes I had bought in Venice.

  When Mârius entered the room, Elvira followed him and announced:

  “You are wanted on the phone.”

  “I’m coming.”

  I would have wished to gaze at him longer, but I had only a quick glimpse of his shoulders as he walked out of the dining room. Without hesitating I picked up the briefcase and fled. Nothing that I left behind exists, not my house, not my husband. Absolutely nothing.

  •

  I am at the Hotel de Llevant, in room number 12. I arrived at midnight. The room was occupied. I couldn’t have it until noon today. This allowed me time to stroll about and write. It’s almost like a short holiday. I have seen the boulevard with the wisteria and the house. I recognized it because the name is printed in gold lettering on the column to the right of the gate. Before I die, lying on the b
ed, I endeavor to hear the voices of the man and woman who had loved each other in this room with its art nouveau decor. I know her voice. His is more familiar to me than any other. She called him “Amor meu.” He would make me whisper it to him in the dark, so he could imagine that I was her. At the head of the bed are two intertwined lilies. Two large lilies. They also adorn the top of the wardrobe with the mirror and the back of the chairs. Fortunately, there is a wing chair covered in velvet, a faded garnet color, its armrests worn smooth. I sit down in it and close my eyes. I have all the letters on my lap. All of them. The first three as well. I laughed when I left the house, the briefcase in my hand. I feel like laughing now too, a clear, healthy laugh. Everything makes me laugh: the two of them and me and my regrettable suicide, all of it so passé. The mere fact that someone makes us suffer should send us straight to our deaths. I am alone, the letters on my lap, surrounded by wooden lilies and an almost real hatred. I will die wearing my black crêpe dress and the shoes I adore with the heels encrusted with green stones.

  I stand to look at myself in the mirror, filling it with darkness. Slowly, very slowly, my bridal gown floats past, empty, like a spindled cloud, followed by a bouquet of fresh roses. But then it is me in the mirror again, the veritable ghost that I am, and the ghost is thinking, “It’s a shame this girl will die.”

  I read the letters, one by one, in order, conscientiously. All of them ridiculous, like love itself. One speaks of Italy, of Florence, of exceptional days in Pisa, and in Venice. How I laughed. With the laugh I used to have when I would suddenly realize in the middle of a lesson that my professor was wearing a dirty tie or looked hungry. My wedding trip was like a pilgrimage to the Holy Land. Milan, Lake Como, Pisa, Florence . . . Oh, I forgot Venice. Ladies and gentlemen, the water, though full of history, is not transparent. No, it is rather like an opal, disfiguring the faces that it mirrors. I am not indulging in literature. Senyors, all of you should travel to Italy, with a woman friend, with your wife. There will be a mirror for every face. The water flows for everyone.