The Apple in the Dark

by Clarice Lispector

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  recognizing the particular and untransferable existence of another person, she accepted the stranger in him with the reverence of love. At that moment she could have said, "I recognize you in you." And if the funniness of it lit up the man beyond the

  fear of wondering, she would also be the great wonderment for

  him at last and he would say to her, "And I recognize in you,

  you." And that is how it would be, and it would be everything,

  for that was most likely love.

  The girl grasped his hand and feeling it warm and still wet,

  she sighed deeply and gave a little laugh. The fact was that she

  scarcely believed in her own skill: that night she had conquered

  fear. And even bemused by sleep, she had known enough to run

  to be close to a man because a man did not have the softness of

  women, a man denied the other life for an instant. Lying there

  pensive, Ermelinda understood what a frightened girl friend of

  hers had said one day, "I want to get married because it's very

  sad for a person to be all alone." Ermelinda gave the phrase a

  very special sense of warning, because her friend too was a

  person who, for example, was afraid of the dark. And it was true,

  Ermelinda reflected very sensibly. Because when she had been

  married, her husband had had schedules and habits, which had

  done so much to take away the breadth of the world. And even

  when they had lived in the city it had been different : in shops

  and stores life was smaller, it fit within her without fear and not

  like in the damned country. She should have stayed in the city

  and got married again; that was it, yes, that was what she should

  have done. And tomorrow, tomorrow she would tell Vit6ria

  that she was leaving, because right now she was getting the proof

  that that was what she ought to do, now that she was snuggling

  up against Martim, and a man takes away that freedom which a

  person all alone feels as the foretaste of a greater freedom.

  It was then, with a smile of sleep upon her face, well-armed

  with what she might tell Vit6ria on the following day, that

  the girl left the woodshed, still befuddled, stepping on the wood

  chips and the mud, walking carefully in the dark so that she

  would not fall.

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  The Apple in the Dark

  And it was then that, as if her eyes had been looking straight

  at herself, that she had the idea of herself as if she were looking

  at herself; and what she saw was a girl all alone in that dripping

  world, with one shoulder uncovered by the sheet she had trouble

  wrapping up in, her hair hanging loose, and that face on whose

  facile indecision had now been painted the joy of living.

  And seeing herself, she stopped so suddenly that her feet

  slipped in a puddle of water and her helpless hands grabbed for

  the tree which had been thrown up in front of her in the dark.

  And as if she herself were a lost stranger who suddenly had seen

  that girl all alone in the rain, she shivered all over. She was alive

  and she glowed with horror. Could she have been alive in that

  life or in the other one? Perhaps she had gone beyond the vague

  horizon, like the birds who go and come back . . . She thought

  that maybe she had died in the arms of the man without

  knowing it because she had given her body to him, and her soul

  was there, white and vacillating, with that sweet joy which the

  girl was not aware could also come from the body.

  Perhaps because, having tripped, she was almost kneeling

  and did not have to be audacious to do what her heart asked of

  her; perhaps because, being out of the house at night for the first

  time, she had broken some law of possibility-now she did not

  have to be brave in order to complete the half-gesture of a fall,

  and then she knelt down by the trunk of the tree that had hurt

  her, and without any shame asked God that she might be

  eternal. "I am I ! " she begged Him, not as a privilege, but to

  make it easier for Him to grant the tremendous exception. "Oh

  God, let me always have a body!" The tears were running down

  her still happy face which, startled, had not had time to change

  its expression. "My God," she finally confessed, feeling that with

  it she was confessing a great sin-"I never want to see You! " She

  felt horror for God and His sweetness and His stability and His

  perfume; she felt horror for the birds that He had sent as

  messengers of peace. "I don't want to die because I don't

  understand death ! " the girl said to God. "Please don't judge me

  so superior to the point that You will send me death! I don't

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  deserve it! Sneer at me because I am inferior, any life is enough

  for me! And I'm not intelligent, I was always backward in

  school, why give me so much importance now, then? It's enough

  to put me aside and forget about me, who am I to die! Only

  privileged people should die! Whom are You asking the truth

  from ! You can give it to anyone who asks for it!"

  She leaned her face against the trunk as against another

  wrinkled face, and she smelled the odor of dirty mud that is so

  reassuring and simple, the smell of her own life on earth; then

  she leaned with desire and love against the dirty tree trunk,

  where her mouth was glued in supplication. And out of pity for

  herself, it was as if God were telling her:

  "That's the way it is. People live and people die."

  Had that not been what she had felt that afternoon when

  she had been hulling corn? Whoever accepted the mystery of

  love accepted the mystery of death; whoever accepted the fact

  that a body that is not yet known fulfills its own destiny, accepted then the fact that our fate goes beyond us, we die, that is.

  And we die impersonally-and with that we go beyond what we

  know about ourselves. There was- something impersonal in the

  fulfilling to which the girl simply said amen-and a person only

  shouted when he was taken by a pain or by surprise and it

  became personal. The girl was confused and tired, leaning

  against the tree trunk. Underneath it all she understood herself

  and she understood. Her way of understanding was what had

  become so difficult through the mystery of words.

  It was more or less that which she felt in her state of sleepiness and love, embracing the good trunk of the tree for the love of which we are so well created, clinging to the tree, liking so

  much its good, hard knots, hoping that for many, many, many

  years she would be able to smell the odor of things, happy

  birthday. The unnatural position was breaking her in two. But

  she could not manage to say good-bye to the warm perfume

  which was coming out of her sleepiness and fatigue, the smell a

  body makes as it lives; and once more she breathed in the

  freshness of the wet leaves, that smell of rain which is like the

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  The Apple in the Dark

  bitter taste of nuts, and her blind hands felt the rough tree

  which was made for our finge
rs, and the wet ground on her

  knees. AII of that is our joy, aII of that which gives us so much

  pleasure, and if we are so weII created for that, then-then

  Ermelinda, so tired now, had the wish to give in at last and to

  foIIow her calling at last, which was to die some day.

  Chapter 4

  WHEN MoNDAY DAWNED, the sun was so strong that the water in

  the puddles was gasping with the heat and the bees were already

  making their rounds among the wounded flowers, and it was as if

  there had been a party and the decorations had not been taken

  down yet. In a short while a new heat had taken over, made up

  of green woollen leaves and body dampness, an unpetaled heat,

  and already by nine o'clock its soul was rotting among swarms

  of mosquitoes. A few greenish pieces of fruit had been squashed

  on the ground for the curiosity of the ants; on the surface of

  the puddles the dusty threads of fallen spider webs were strung

  out. But a few diligent spiders had already built new shiny links

  in the air. With attention brought on by unconscious hope one's

  glance would accompany the silk threads they moved rapidly

  from one tree to another, filling in again the space that the rain

  had caused. At nine o'clock only the spider threads were delicate

  in the light. Everything else had the exhaustion of satisfaction,

  the wetness of felt which is difficult to dry, and the weight of

  its own weight. It had rained everywhere.

  With renewed strength, the mulatto woman was singing in

  the hot kitchen. The rain of the night appeared to have been in

  everyone's imagination, what happens at night has no use in the

  daytime. Martim's eyes were red from lack of sleep. His fatigue

  was worse than he had calculated, and his mouth had the taste

  of sleep that had not been slept. "I was in the woods last night,"

  he thought, obstinately reducing what had happened to him to

  this : he had been in the woods and when he had come back

  Ermelinda had come to the woodshed. "A fresh girl," he

  thought, fatigued and without malice, looking at her from the

  distance and seeing her with her hair parted sensibly again as if

  nothing had happened. Sunday night seemed like an absurdity

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  The Apple in the Dark

  to the man, and he could not really remember the details very

  well; being in the woods, which "did not mean anything after

  all" -and that was why he spat into the plate from which he

  had just eaten. "Later. I'll think about it later," he said to

  himself. "There's still time." It would be quite easy to take the

  truck at nightfall, and when they heard the noise of the motor

  he would be far away. He still had some time, relatively speaking, being still just a charade for the professor. "Later," he thought.

  The mulatto woman was singing and Ermelinda said to her

  as she drank her coffee, "Last night I had such a fear of dying

  that you can't imagine! I thought the whole world was going to

  collapse! "

  "No such luck, Dona Ermelinda ! " the other one said

  happily.

  They both laughed. But they grew silent like accomplices

  when they heard Vit6ria's steps coming through the living room.

  In the old black slacks again and her blouse open at the neck,

  with her hair in a bun, Vit6ria was coming in from the fields.

  She did not know what time it had been when she had had her

  coffee; she had waked up so active, as if she had lost time that

  she had to make up with the rain.

  "Today's the day," the mulatto murmured, nodding at

  Vit6ria. "Today's the day we're going to catch it" -and Ermelinda agreed in silence.

  But Vit6ria did not even look at them as she passed through

  the kitchen. She was worried about other problems-she had

  decided, for example, that they would finally have to cut down

  the old apple tree because it bore fruit only rarely and even then

  the fruit was sour, and especially because it was taking up good

  land. But now the moment of decision had come because a bolt

  of lightning or a gust of wind had broken off some branches,

  which were hanging down like rags across the crotch.

  Martim rebelled a little; he thought that it was a shame to

  destroy the beautiful tree. Vit6ria insisted, and she turned red as

  she insisted. He looked at her, listened to her argue, and offered

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  a mute resistance. The woman became more and more insistent

  that the tree come down, as if the repugnance that the man

  showed for the chore was inciting her.

  So, after a few orders had been given to Francisco and other

  matters had been decided, Vit6ria followed Martim and his axe,

  and she stationed herself near the tree to watch-and she was

  resolute, as if the chopping down would be a question of

  minutes. One of her feet was resting determinedly on a rock.

  Martim sluggishly began to cut the first round notches. She,

  as if prepared to witness a violent and quick destruction, became

  restless with the man's slowness, and she could barely control

  her face that was being taunted by the sun.

  "Faster," she finally whispered rapidly and softly, unable to

  restrain herself any more.

  He did not turn around or even break the slow rhythm of his

  strokes.

  "How long before it will fall?" the restless woman asked.

  "That all depends."

  "Maybe you'd like me to get Francisco to help you? Maybe

  you can't do it alone?" she suggested, impatient for a reply.

  "That won't be necessary," he said at the same time as

  another hard blow rang out. "Slow but sure."

  "But I don't want it to be slow," she thought, kicking with

  her boot at the gnarled roots that were scattered about, protruding far from the old black tree that in its strength was barely trembling under the blows of the axe. They remained silent, the

  sun was getting higher and becoming stronger. It was a restless

  silence, full of flies. The chopping was taking on a regulated

  rhythm:--small chips flew away, damp and white, showing how

  young the tree still was inside. The woman sat down on one of

  the outcroppings of the roots, and the man, without stopping his

  work, took a quick look at her. The silence continued, the flies

  were shining, dirty and blue; the restless dogs were smelling each

  other. A whistle was heard far off, a fall was heard far off; the

  flies were shining black.

  The woman's heart began to pound rapidly when she finally

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  asked with a calm face, but so upset that she did not hear her

  own v01ce :

  "Why did you come here?''

  She heard nothing in reply. Only the axe-blows were making

  any sound, deepening the circle around the trunk. And with

  great relief she came to believe that she had not spoken and that

  she had only heard her own thoughts. Her ears, which had been

  prepared for an answer, could only hear the gurgling of the river.

  But he replied :

  "I separated from my wife and I went away."

  W
ithout even noticing that she had just learned that he was

  married, she said :

  "But why did you come here precisely?"

  "It might as well have been here as well as any other place."

  She realized that he had said that he was married.

  "The first impression I had of you was that you were a

  fugitive! " she said then very harshly.

  "In a manner of speaking," he said.

  And having said it, he slowly interrupted his work. He threw

  the axe aside. He turned around and faced her.

  The woman became a little pale. A slight tic made her

  mouth and her left eye contract simultaneously, and it gave her

  the innocent air of someone caught in the act.

  "You," Martin stated without anger-"you only want me to

  chop down this tree so you can keep me in one place and ask me

  questions."

  "Me? Of course not!" she answered, and the truth had been

  revealed so suddenly that the woman felt innocent before it.

  "I already told you. I separated from my wife and I went

  away."

  "But you seemed to be running away . . ." she could not

  help saying, full of curiosity.

  "People run away from things like that too," he replied with

  extreme care, not turning his cold eyes away from her face for a

  second.

  They remained there looking at each other; both of their

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  faces were raw in the open air and red from the sun. There was

  not a wrinkle on the woman's face that was not showing, but

  since she did not know it she lifted up her head suddenly with a

  good deal of haughtiness.

  Then, even though the thick tree was barely wounded,

  Martim turned to go away as if the job had been done.

  "Stay here," she said hurriedly and harshly. "I want to talk ! "

  "I already told you," h e repeated even more harshly. "I separated from my wife and I went away. Does the professor have to know any more than that?" he added, calm and cruel.

  She did not seem to have heard, but she grew pale :

  "That's not what I want to talk about! " she cut in quickly,

  surprised at herself.

  Martim assumed a stiff air of strict expectation, as if he

  meant to go away as soon as she said what she had to say.

  "I want-I want to talk about Ermelinda," she suddenly

  invented.