The Selected Stories of Mercè Rodoreda

by Mercè Rodoreda

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  The sea washes the body of a dead mariner onto a deserted beach. His eyes are open. From time to time the waves lap across the anchor tattooed on his chest.

  On a

  Dark Night

  “Why am I in this room?” I asked myself suddenly, but my thoughts refused to respond. Along with everything else, they too were lost.

  “You see?” Loki exclaimed as she sat on my lap. “The windows of my house are for decoration. Neither light nor wind enters them.” Then she added, as if it were the most natural thing, “Did you know that I was born to live only at night?”

  At night I reached this house that has but one room. I don’t know how I arrived, without taking a step I daresay. You’ll spot a . . . but what advantage would there be for me to tell which path to take? Unless you know how to find it, it will always be the path that is the easiest to miss. No dream could ever conjure up this girl; she is like none other. Who could imagine her, much less find her, in this unfamiliar place, where not even the rumbling canons keep us from loving each other? I explained to Loki what war was; she didn’t understand. It’s better that way: she would suffer needlessly.

  You must think me mad. I had seen many of my fellow soldiers fall. Others lay injured, groaning as they lost blood. One had empty eyes. Evening was falling when the battle ended. For three days we never stopped burying men! When the first star appeared, the clamor of fighting had ceased. Clouds slowly covered the sad, wan sky, engulfing the star. I don’t know how or why I began walking. “Where are you going?” asked the companion we all have but don’t want because we wish to be alone with our tedium. For two days and two nights we had fought side by side in the trenches. As he charged, he screamed the words patria, ideal, freedom. Hearing him inspired me with courage, although at times I wanted to kill him so I wouldn’t hear his voice. “Where are you going?” I didn’t reply. We had spent the night nailed to the same spot, all the men, elbow to elbow, eyes that couldn’t see from straining to look. Not a drop of alcohol to boost our strength, only nerves and memories. Not even memories now. Complete exhaustion. A sense of animality. All my desires converged: I wanted sleep. But my memories are stubborn. They arrive and take possession of my thoughts, filling them with shadows. Sometimes a man feels an infinite, almost delirious thirst for love, and he embarks upon the quest with the confidence that what he seeks exists. Then he feels cheated. All of us have experienced this. In my case, it was especially baneful. The more passionate we are, the worse off we are. Look at it this way: they say I’m a brave man. That is false. Disappointments make us strong. If courage stems from contempt for life and death, it lacks merit. When my dreams were thwarted, I became what I am. We stumble through life more or less mechanically. You know you have a soul or that you are filled with a passion that dares not manifest itself because . . . I’m drifting away from what I wanted to say. Dark night crept in, and I pushed forward, on and on, driven mad by all those days of gunfire and deafening explosions. Not an inch of land had been seized.

  I left the war behind.

  I paused to listen to the river that was barring my way. I couldn’t see the water, but I caught its freshness. I breathed in its scent until I felt myself drenched. The monotonous murmur calmed my sick nerves. The darkness grew more and more intense. The sound of leaves rustling in the gentle wind blended with that of the river. I leaned against a tree. Not even a scrap of tobacco to roll a cigarette! The sky must have observed the clouds scurrying past, not I. “In order for someone to live, someone must die,” I found myself thinking. I lived thanks to the stupidity of that discovery. A series of absurd ideas surfaced: I could change the course of the river, rearrange the mountains. Suddenly one thought stood out: What river is this? Why is it here in this barren, desolate land? From where could this tree have sprung—and all the trees I sensed from the wind in the branches—if I have walked kilometers without encountering a single blade of grass? I assure you it was no mirage: I could feel the cool water against my face and chest. I was soaked.

  I continued down the path, following the river, attempting to convince myself that it was real. No matter which way I turned, it never left my side. My feet stumbled on the dense undergrowth that blocked my way until finally I reached the high wall of her house, although I did not know then that it was hers. The wall was made of logs, as were the other three, the first ones with two windows each, the last with a tiny door.

  I walked around the outside of the house. The windows had no shutters or blinds, and the light streaming from them drew my gaze inside, to the figure of a smiling girl. She was seated. My eyes paused on her hands, but I could not make out what she was holding. Allow me to speak of the girl. What will I gain? If I tell you that she was quite pretty, you may believe me, though perhaps you will think it a lie. Who can say? In truth, she was beautiful, but beauty is not everything in a girl. Now that I have held her in my arms, heard her sighing with love against my chest, now that I have grown drunk from the perfume of her hair, I can tell you that the shape of the eyes or the perfection of lips are not the only thing one should love.

  Perhaps a certain way of speaking, looking, smiling drives us wild, but it is best to put aside what is difficult to explain, or take it up another day when we don’t know what to say.

  The girl rose, moved toward the door, out of sight, then came outside to breathe the night which was suddenly filled with her presence.

  My desire led me to her. She gazed at me without the slightest fear, and her voice reached me, as sweet as the bitterness of those who have suffered greatly.

  “Come.”

  Together we entered the room that I have often recalled. There was a faint light, a soft atmosphere.

  “Sit down,” she said pointing to a low seat. “And now I would like . . .” she continued, sitting on my lap as a child might, “I would like for the light to be extinguished, leaving only the glow of night.” She gently placed her arms around my neck, resting her lips there as she spoke.

  “It’s as if I have always waited for you, from a moment beyond time, before I ever began to wait.”

  I thought of distant loves of mine; they no longer seemed to be real love. I considered how my hate had vanished and my anxieties quieted. I would have wished to know why she was there, who her parents were, what sky had seen her come into being, what country had seen her as a child. Yet at the same time, I was afraid I might shatter what didn’t seem to exist, despite the fact that I held the girl so tightly against me that my heart could feel hers. She had always waited for me; I had always desired her. A girl like her, filled with tenderness, bringing peace to my spirit, penetrating it before making me hers in the flesh.

  A calendar with the days marked with a cross hung on the wall in front of where we were sitting. She noticed my gaze and explained:

  “I was counting the days. Every night I counted them. I didn’t know which path would lead you to me. I would have wished it to be through the stars.”

  “I’ve followed the road of desire and will return by the road of memories.”

  “What are memories?” The question seemed to frighten her, so I didn’t reply. Her lips searched mine. Nothing in this world can equal the sweetness of her kisses.

  When I left her, only my body departed. My thoughts—no will was involved—could not accompany me because they were the prisoners of her soul.

  There was a truce that day. An inventory of the spoils. We needed to fortify recently conquered positions. Enemy aviation appeared at dusk. I thought of Loki as I lay on the ground. Why that name and not another, since I was certain that she hadn’t mentioned it? I realized that she was becoming my obsession: I lived in her, for her, with her. She had penetrated my soul, taken possession of my spirit, as no other woman ever had. But was she real?

  The sky was covered with clouds, as it had been on the previous day. The evening was impregnated with an overpowering sadness. Loki . . . How could such an absurd na
me charm me to this degree? I realized how deeply I loved her. It was true love, its intensity perhaps possible only because we were immersed in the awareness of death.

  “Loki,” I said, holding her clumsily. I had found her in her house with the tiny windows. “Listen to me. Do you understand what death is? I’m here because I’m fighting a war.” I spoke to her as I would a child. “I have to defend my country. My country’s desire for freedom.” I used my companion’s ideas, communicating them with the same faith he professed, although my skepticism had mocked them. I had gone to war out of a desire for adventure, the need to see new lands, fleeing from the person I despised—myself—leaping into whatever awaited me as long as it allowed me to feel that some good was derived from my uselessness. I was surprised by Loki’s sincerity and by the words I whispered close to her face. I saw in her eyes the reflection of the war. “War is hard, it is cruel. How fortunate to hold you in my arms, hear your voice!” In a strange surge of desperation, I screamed, “War destroys everything, everything!” Then I continued with great tenderness, “I might die one of these days. So what? You’ll always be mine, no matter what happens. I could take on the entire world and not be frightened because . . . he doesn’t know how much I love you.”

  I have no idea how long I spoke. I was intoxicated by the words that her eyes absorbed. The young girl of the previous day became a woman. Her incorporeal beauty became human and all my senses desired her. Her eyes were fastened on mine, incapable of closing. “I may not return tomorrow.” Did she understand me? “You are the only good I’ve encountered in life. You hold in your tiny hand all my past, all my future.” Then my hand, without my wishing it, was filled with desire and ran slowly up her waist, until it found the breast my lips longed for.

  We gave ourselves to each other. Close to her mouth, I drank in a word as old as the earth. Life. She infused it with emotion and meaning. Life.

  I uttered her name, as she breathed against my chest, and the day dawned.

  “Loki.”

  Despite strong enemy resistance, we have occupied new positions.

  The soldiers advance, their uniforms blending with the earth, their bayonets gleaming in the sun. They enter the remains of a village. A dead horse blocks the way, obliging them to separate. The soldiers are from far away; they have left their homes behind. They’ve come from all walks in life, but to come this far they have had to cross rivers and march along broad roads. They arrive with their youth, which only now begins to acquire a past. If they are alive when this has ended, they will have become men. The ruined roads are flooded with soldiers. A site must be chosen to set up headquarters. Curtains of fire billowed from the village yesterday. Today silent ruins stand in the sun. The day is bright, the sky a diaphanous blue. Most of the enemy prisoners have died of gangrene.

  I feel a raging pain in my back, as if knives were probing an open wound. The nurse who cares for me is middle-aged. Her face is flushed. She has whitish-blonde hair, a wisp of which pokes out from beneath her dingy white cap. She is clearly skilled and explains that she is always assigned to the hospitals closest to the front. She takes my pulse, places her hard, rough hand on my forehead with a masculine gesture of someone who never hesitates. Can a person retain such energy and strength of mind amidst such . . . ? I don’t finish the question. The pain in my back causes me to desist. I grit my teeth and think of Loki. I wonder how long it’s been since I was able to think of her. I’ll escape tonight and search for her. I’m filled with an irrepressible desire to weep, because . . . Suddenly I remember that I wanted to go yesterday. I escaped from my bed and jumped out the window. The night was clear, and I could plainly see where I stepped. One kiss from the person I loved would have sufficed. Not a sweet kiss, but passionate, interminable, like those of the last night. In this dreary room I conjure up her presence and speak to her. I was wounded and fell. I couldn’t find your house with the windows for decoration. I know you are without equal and that, like the land where I was born, for me there is no other. You are better than all the women I will never meet. It is impossible to compare you to those I have known. I long to be alone with you, hear your voice when my breath touches yours. I’ll whisper your name, close to your lips that I dare not touch. I’ll speak to you of all the things you cannot comprehend, and your eyes will be agape with understanding. You will mark the days on the calendar with a cross, not for what must come about, but for what must depart. I yearn for your always lively presence, long for the nights that were worth more than all the nights of my life. They have brought me to you. I glimpse your house, the windows, the silence, your footsteps, your eyes in which dreams are born. I want you. I thought these things, and you were mine.

  I died at dawn. Wanting to be with Loki, I had ripped off my bandages, and the wound had immediately spread, deepened. I would never have imagined that my body could hold so much blood. The pain in my back lessened. Slowly the light grew dim, the colors paler. I watched as the bullet holes in the wall in front of me—the hospital where I lie had been the town hall, the scene of terrible fighting—began to fade. “Everything flees,” I thought to myself. Soon I will be out of here. If that’s the case, I can go wherever I want. The land is free of obstacles. Not like here, where the legs on the bed keep me from reaching the window, or if it is closed, I run the danger of smashing my head against the walls. Then something strange happens: I lose my feet, then my hands. I hear a drip. Blood sputtering, escaping the prison of my veins. I’m overcome by sleep, a deeper sleep than I have ever felt. I want to keep my eyes open, to see if the light returns, if objects re-materialize. It’s useless. As soon as it occurs to me that perhaps I am dead, I am.

  I feel the air passing over me when they cover me with a sheet. I don’t listen to what they say. It holds no interest for me.

  They left me then, alone with the dead man that I was. My ears, however, pick up the slightest sounds. One drop of blood remains in my rebellious heart, allowing me to direct my thoughts toward the one place I desire, but they return unaccompanied. The deepest thought of all carried with it the word “Loki,” and the name came back to guide me.

  What a dark night!

  Suddenly the unmistakable sound of battle. The whistle of projectiles spraying dirt when they explode. A man’s scream as he advances with blind courage to defy the bullets, drawing others with him. The trenches are hollows created by the shells. Machine guns devour the lines. Rifles wear out from overuse. For each soldier that falls, twice as many emerge.

  Everything grows silent.

  Softly comes the murmur of water flowing downstream. The river is beside me, carrying away all that is useless. It streams into my eyes. Trees float past, the leaves on their branches swaying in the wind. A coolness penetrates my chest as the water rushes over me.

  Night

  and Fog

  If all of us here could return to the womb, half would be trampled to death by those who fight to get in first. A womb is warm, dark, enclosed.

  I used to tell myself to play dead. That was before I realized I was a shadow. Now I keep quiet. There is no possible justification for them to have turned me into a shadow. In other countries, the wind still blows, there are still trees, still people. I was filled with a hunger for those people, more than a hunger for food. When that mania came over me, I was ready to smash my head against a wall. The more deaths that occur here, the better I feel. It fills me with such a deep sense of joy, so complex it can’t be described. Meier died some time ago. He stank. All of them do. That’s why I used to have this hunger for people. People sleep, get up, wash their hands, know that roads are for walking, chairs for sitting. People are neat. They do their business in a corner, closing the door so no one will see them. They use a handkerchief, turn off the light to make love. Meier used to piss all the time. “C’est pas de ma faute,” he would say at first with that grotesque accent of his, as a way of excusing himself. Then he stopped talking. He slept in my bed. The first time I
felt my thigh damp and warm; a wave of wild anger rose to my head. With all my might I thrust my spoon into his neck. I heard the rattle coming from his throat, right by my ear. Suddenly he kneed me in the stomach. My arms went slack, and I let him go.

  They caught me in Bordeaux on 14 March 1943. Six days in a French prison, seven beatings till I bled.

  At home, when I was little, we had a fishbowl with three red fish. I would spend hours watching them. They never bumped into the side of the glass. I used to think, “If they don’t see it, how do they manage to sense it and turn at just the right moment?” One afternoon I was alone. Father was working and mother had gone to the hospital to visit a friend who had a tumor on her back. I went over to the fishbowl and grabbed a fish. It struggled frantically in my hand, then opened its mouth, eyes bulging, all shiny and round. (It had a white spot on one side. The other two fish were completely red.) I returned it to the water. When I thought it had recovered, I took it out again. I put it back in the water, then grabbed it again. I continued the experiment until it died. I was playing a game: I wanted to see what the fish would do. I didn’t want it to die.

  They dragged me out of my cell, then returned me. They took me out to beat me and sent me back to recover, so they could beat me again.

  That’s why here in the camp I was so glad I didn’t have a white spot. Sometimes I was afraid I’d develop one. I would’ve been calmer if I had a mirror. I’d look at myself every morning and wouldn’t have to bother a bunkmate.

  “Tu connais?” The guards showed me a picture. It was a young girl with a strand of hair that practically covered one of her eyes. “Connais pas? Connais pas? Salaud!” One of them grabbed my nose and was twisting it like he had some pliers. “Fais pas l’imbécile, voyons . . . avoue.” He got all worked up. When I couldn’t stand it any longer, I seized his hand. I felt a terrible wallop to my stomach, followed by many more. “Connais pas la poule? Avoue!”