The Complete Stories

by Clarice Lispector

  “You aren’t a woman and all heels are made of wood.”

  Until, just as a person gets fat, she stopped, without knowing how it happened, being precious. There’s an obscure law that makes one protect the egg until the chick is born, a firebird.

  And she got the new shoes.

  Family Ties

  (“Os laços de família”)

  The woman and her mother finally squeezed into the taxi that was taking them to the station. The mother kept counting and recounting the two suitcases trying to convince herself that both were in the car. The daughter, with her dark eyes, whose slightly cross-eyed quality gave them a constant glimmer of derision and detachment—watched.

  “I haven’t forgotten anything?” the mother was asking for the third time.

  “No, no, you haven’t forgotten anything,” the daughter answered in amusement, patiently.

  That somewhat comic scene between her mother and her husband still lingered in her mind, when it came time to say goodbye. For the entire two weeks of the old woman’s visit, the two could barely stand each other; their good-mornings and good-afternoons constantly struck a note of cautious tact that made her want to laugh. But right when saying goodbye, before getting into the taxi, her mother had transformed into a model mother-in-law and her husband had become the good son-in-law. “Forgive any misspoken words,” the old lady had said, and Catarina, taking some joy in it, had seen Antônio fumble with the suitcases in his hands, stammering—flustered at being the good son-in-law. “If I laugh, they’ll think I’m mad,” Catarina had thought, frowning. “Whoever marries off a son loses a son, whoever marries off a daughter gains a son,” her mother had added, and Antônio took advantage of having the flu to cough. Catarina, standing there, had mischievously observed her husband whose self-assurance gave way to a diminutive, dark-haired man, forced to be a son to that tiny graying woman . . . Just then her urge to laugh intensified. Luckily she never actually had to laugh whenever she got the urge: her eyes took on a sly, restrained look, went even more cross-eyed—and her laughter came out through her eyes. Being able to laugh always hurt a little. But she couldn’t help it: ever since she was little she’d laughed through her eyes, she’d always been cross-eyed.

  “I’ll say it again, that boy is too skinny,” her mother declared while bracing herself against the jolting of the car. And though Antônio wasn’t there, she adopted the same combative, accusatory tone she used with him. So much that one night Antônio had lost his temper: “It’s not my fault, Severina!” He called his mother-in-law Severina, since before the wedding he’d envisioned them as a modern mother- and son-in-law. Starting from her mother’s first visit to the couple, the word Severina had turned leaden in her husband’s mouth, and so, now, the fact that he used her first name hadn’t stopped . . . —Catarina would look at them and laugh.

  “The boy’s always been skinny, Mama,” she replied.

  The taxi drove on monotonously.

  “Skinny and anxious,” added the old lady decisively.

  “Skinny and anxious,” Catarina agreed patiently.

  He was an anxious, distracted boy. During his grandmother’s visit he’d become even more remote, slept poorly, was upset by the old woman’s excessive affection and loving pinches. Antônio, who’d never been particularly worried about his son’s sensitivity, had begun dropping hints to his mother-in-law, “to protect a child” . . .

  “I haven’t forgotten anything . . .” her mother started up again, when the car suddenly braked, launching them into each other and sending their suitcases flying. Oh! oh!, shouted her mother as if faced with some irremediable disaster, “oh!” she said shaking her head in surprise, suddenly older and pitiable. And Catarina?

  Catarina looked at her mother, and mother looked at daughter, and had some disaster also befallen Catarina? her eyes blinked in surprise, she quickly righted the suitcases and her purse, trying to remedy the catastrophe as fast as possible. Because something had indeed happened, there was no point hiding it: Catarina had been launched into Severina, into a long forgotten bodily intimacy, going back to the age when one has a father and mother. Though they’d never really hugged or kissed. With her father, yes, Catarina had always been more of a friend. Whenever her mother would fill their plates making them overeat, the two would wink at each other conspiratorially and her mother never even noticed. But after colliding in the taxi and after regaining their composure, they had nothing to talk about—why weren’t they already at the station?

  “I haven’t forgotten anything,” her mother asked in a resigned voice.

  Catarina no longer wished to look at her or answer.

  “Take your gloves!” she said as she picked them up off the ground.

  “Oh! oh! my gloves!” her mother exclaimed, flustered.

  They only really looked at each other once the suitcases were deposited on the train, after they’d exchanged kisses: her mother’s head appeared at the window.

  Catarina then saw that her mother had aged and that her eyes were glistening.

  The train wasn’t leaving and they waited with nothing to say. The mother pulled a mirror from her purse and studied herself in her new hat, bought at the same milliner’s where her daughter went. She gazed at herself while making an excessively severe expression that didn’t lack in self-admiration. Her daughter watched in amusement. No one but me can love you, thought the woman laughing through her eyes; and the weight of that responsibility left the taste of blood in her mouth. As if “mother and daughter” were life and abhorrence. No, you couldn’t say she loved her mother. Her mother pained her, that was all. The old woman had slipped the mirror back into her purse, and was smiling steadily at her. Her worn and still quite clever face looked like it was struggling to make a certain impression on the people around her, in which her hat played a role. The station bell suddenly rang, there was a general movement of anxiousness, several people broke into a run thinking the train was already leaving: Mama! the woman said. Catarina! the old woman said. They gaped at each other, the suitcase on a porter’s head blocked their view and a young man rushing past grabbed Catarina’s arm in passing, jerking the collar of her dress off-kilter. When they could see each other again, Catarina was on the verge of asking if she’d forgotten anything . . .

  “. . . I haven’t forgotten anything?” her mother asked.

  Catarina also had the feeling they’d forgotten something, and they looked at each other at a loss—for if they really had forgotten something, it was too late now. A woman dragged a child along, the child wailed, the station bell resounded again . . . Mama, said the woman. What was it they’d forgotten to say to each other? and now it was too late. It struck her that one day they should have said something like: “I am your mother, Catarina.” And she should have answered: “And I am your daughter.”

  “Don’t sit in the draft!” Catarina called.

  “Come now, girl, I’m not a child,” said her mother, never taking her attention off her own appearance. Her freckled hand, slightly tremulous, was delicately arranging the brim of her hat and Catarina suddenly wanted to ask whether she’d been happy with her father:

  “Give my best to Auntie!” she shouted.

  “Yes, of course!”

  “Mama,” said Catarina because a lengthy whistle was heard and the wheels were already turning amid the smoke.

  “Catarina!” the old woman called, her mouth open and her eyes astonished, and at the first lurch her daughter saw her raise her hands to her hat: it had fallen over her nose, covering everything but her new dentures. The train was already moving and Catarina waved. Her mother’s face disappeared for an instant and immediately reappeared hatless, her loosened bun spilling in white locks over her shoulders like the hair of a maiden—her face was downcast and unsmiling, perhaps no longer even seeing her daughter in the distance.

  Amid the smoke Catarina began heading back, frowni
ng, with that mischievous look of the cross-eyed. Without her mother’s company, she had regained her firm stride: it was easier alone. A few men looked at her, she was sweet, a little heavyset. She walked serenely, dressed in a modern style, her short hair dyed “mahogany.” And things had worked out in such a way that painful love seemed like happiness to her—everything around her was so alive and tender, the dirty street, the old trams, orange peels—strength flowed back and forth through her heart in weighty abundance. She was very pretty just then, so elegant; in step with her time and the city where she’d been born as if she had chosen it. In her cross-eyed look anyone could sense the enjoyment this woman took in the things of the world. She stared at other people boldly, trying to fasten onto those mutable figures her pleasure that was still damp with tears for her mother. She veered out of the way of oncoming cars, managed to sidestep the line for the bus, glancing around ironically; nothing could stop this little woman whose hips swayed as she walked from climbing one more mysterious step in her days.

  The elevator hummed in the beachfront heat. She opened the door to her apartment while using her other hand to free herself of her little hat; she seemed poised to reap the largess of the whole world, the path opened by the mother who was burning in her chest. Antônio barely looked up from his book. Saturday afternoon had always been “his,” and, as soon as Severina had left, he gladly reclaimed it, seated at his desk.

  “Did ‘she’ leave?”

  “Yes she did,” answered Catarina while pushing open the door to her son’s room. Ah, yes, there was the boy, she thought in sudden relief. Her son. Skinny and anxious. Ever since he could walk he’d been steady on his feet; but nearing the age of four he still spoke as if he didn’t know what verbs were: he’d confirm things coldly, not linking them. There he sat fiddling with his wet towel, exact and remote. The woman felt a pleasant warmth and would have liked to capture the boy forever in that moment; she pulled the towel from his hands disapprovingly: that boy! But the boy gazed indifferently into the air, communicating with himself. He was always distracted. No one had ever really managed to hold his attention. His mother shook out the towel and her body blocked the room from his view: “Mama,” said the boy. Catarina spun around. It was the first time he’d said “Mama” in that tone of voice and without asking for anything. It had been more than a confirmation: Mama! The woman kept shaking the towel violently and wondered if there was anyone she could tell what happened, but she couldn’t think of anyone who’d understand what she couldn’t explain. She smoothed the towel vigorously before hanging it to dry. Maybe she could explain, if she changed the way it happened. She’d explain that her son had said: “Mama, who is God.” No, maybe: “Mama, boy wants God.” Maybe. The truth would only fit into symbols, they’d only accept it through symbols. Her eyes smiling at her necessary lie, and above all at her own foolishness, fleeing from Severina, the woman unexpectedly laughed aloud at the boy, not just with her eyes: her whole body burst into laughter, a burst casing, and a harshness emerging as hoarseness. Ugly, the boy then said peering at her.

  “Let’s go for a walk!” she replied blushing and taking him by the hand.

  She passed through the living room, informing her husband without breaking stride: “We’re going out!” and slammed the apartment door.

  Antônio hardly had time to look up from his book—and in surprise saw that the living room was already empty. Catarina! he called, but he could already hear the sound of the descending elevator. Where did they go? he wondered nervously, coughing and blowing his nose. Because Saturday was his, but he wanted his wife and his son at home while he enjoyed his Saturday. Catarina! he called irritably though he knew she could no longer hear him. He got up, went to the window and a second later spotted his wife and son on the sidewalk.

  The pair had stopped, the woman perhaps deciding which way to go. And suddenly marching off.

  Why was she walking so briskly, holding the child’s hand? through the window he saw his wife gripping the child’s hand tightly and walking swiftly, her eyes staring straight ahead; and, even without seeing it, the man could tell that her jaw was set. The child, with who-knew-what obscure comprehension, was also staring straight ahead, startled and unsuspecting. Seen from above, the two figures lost their familiar perspective, seemingly flattened to the ground and darkened against the light of the sea. The child’s hair was fluttering . . .

  The husband repeated his question to himself, which, though cloaked in the innocence of an everyday expression, worried him: where are they going? He nervously watched his wife lead the child and feared that just now when both were beyond his reach she would transmit to their son . . . but what exactly? “Catarina,” he thought, “Catarina, this child is still innocent!” Just when does a mother, holding a child tight, impart to him this prison of love that would forever fall heavily on the future man. Later on her son, a man now, alone, would stand before this very window, drumming his fingers against this windowpane; trapped. Forced to answer to a dead person. Who could ever know just when a mother passes this legacy to her son. And with what somber pleasure. Mother and son now understanding each other inside the shared mystery. Afterward no one would know from what black roots a man’s freedom is nourished. “Catarina,” he thought enraged, “that child is innocent!” Yet they’d disappeared somewhere along the beach. The shared mystery.

  “But what about me? what about me?” he asked fearfully. They had gone off alone. And he had stayed behind. “With his Saturday.” And his flu. In that tidy apartment, where “everything ran smoothly.” What if his wife was fleeing with their son from that living room with its well-adjusted light, from the tasteful furniture, the curtains and the paintings? that was what he’d given her. An engineer’s apartment. And he knew that if his wife enjoyed the situation of having a youthful husband with a promising future—she also disparaged it, with those deceitful eyes, fleeing with their anxious, skinny son. The man got worried. Since he couldn’t provide her anything but: more success. And since he knew that she’d help him achieve it and would hate whatever they accomplished. That was how this calm, thirty-two-year-old woman was, who never really spoke, as if she’d been alive forever. Their relationship was so peaceful. Sometimes he tried to humiliate her, he’d barge into their bedroom while she was changing because he knew she detested being seen naked. Why did he need to humiliate her? yet he was well aware that she would only ever belong to a man as long as she had her pride. But he had grown used to this way of making her feminine: he’d humiliate her with tenderness, and soon enough she’d smile—without resentment? Maybe this had given rise to the peaceful nature of their relationship, and those muted conversations that created a homey environment for their child. Or would he sometimes get irritable? Sometimes the boy would get irritable, stomping his feet, screaming from nightmares. What had this vibrant little creature been born from, if not from all that he and his wife had cut from their everyday life. They lived so peacefully that, if they brushed up against a moment of joy, they’d exchange rapid, almost ironic, glances, and both would say with their eyes: let’s not waste it, let’s not use it up frivolously. As if they’d been alive forever.

  But he had spotted her from the window, seen her striding swiftly holding hands with their son, and said to himself: she’s savoring a moment of joy—alone. He had felt frustrated because for a while now he hadn’t been able to live unless with her. And she still managed to savor her moments—alone. For example, what had his wife been up to on the way from the train to the apartment? not that he had any suspicions but he felt uneasy.

  The last light of the afternoon was heavy and beat down solemnly on the objects. The dry sands crackled. The whole day had been under this threat of radiating. Which just then, without exploding, nonetheless, grew increasingly deafening and droned on in the building’s ceaseless elevator. Whenever Catarina returned they’d have dinner while swatting at the moths. The boy would cry out after first falling asleep, Cata
rina would interrupt dinner for a moment . . . and wouldn’t the elevator let up for even a second?! No, the elevator wouldn’t let up for a second.

  “After dinner we’ll go to the movies,” the man decided. Because after the movies it would be night at last, and this day would shatter with the waves on the crags of Arpoador.

  Beginnings of a Fortune

  (“Começos de uma Fortuna”)

  It was one of those mornings that seem to hang in the air. And that are most akin to the idea we have of time.

  The veranda doors stood open but the cool air had frozen outside and nothing was coming in from the garden, as if any overflow would break the harmony. Only a few glistening flies had penetrated the dining room and were hovering over the sugar bowl. At that hour, not all of Tijuca was awake. “If I had money . . .” thought Artur, and a desire to amass wealth, to tranquilly possess, gave his face a detached and contemplative look.

  “I’m not a gambler.”

  “Cut that nonsense out,” his mother replied. “Don’t start again with this money talk.”

  Actually he didn’t feel like initiating any pressing conversations that might lead to solutions. A bit of the mortification from the previous night’s dinner conversation about his allowance, his father mixing authority with understanding and his mother mixing understanding with basic principles—a bit of the previous night’s mortification demanded, nevertheless, further discussion. It just seemed pointless to try to muster yesterday’s urgency. Every night, sleep seemed to answer all his needs. And in the morning, unlike the adults who awake dark and unshaven, he got up ever more fresh-faced. Tousled, but different from his father’s disarray, which suggested that things had befallen him in the night. His mother would also emerge from their bedroom a little disheveled and still dreamy, as if the bitterness of sleep had given her satisfaction. Until they’d had breakfast, all were irritable or pensive, including the maid. It wasn’t the right time to ask for anything. But for him, establishing his authority in the morning was a peacemaking necessity: whenever he awoke he felt he had to recuperate the previous days. So thoroughly did sleep sever his moorings, every night.