Читать книгу Chronicle of the Murdered House - Lúcio Cardoso - Страница 12
Оглавление18th . . . 19 . . . – (. . . what exactly does death mean? Once she’s far from me—her mortal remains buried beneath the earth—how long will I have to go on retracing the path she taught me, her admirable lesson of love, how long will I keep trying to find in other women, in all the many women one meets throughout one’s life, the velvet of her kisses—“this was how she used to kiss”—her way of smiling, the same rebellious lock of hair–and who will help me rebuild, out of grief and longing, that unique image gone forever? And what does “forever” mean—the harsh, pompous echo of those words rings down the deserted hallways of the soul—the “forever” that is, in fact, meaningless, not even a visible moment in the very instant in which we think it, and yet that is all we have, because it is the one definitive word available to us in our scant earthly vocabulary . . .
Yes, what does “forever” mean, save the continuous, fluid existence of everything cut free from contingency, of everything that changes and evolves and breaks ceaselessly on the shores of equally mutable feelings? There was no point in trying to hide: the “forever” was there before my eyes. A minute, a single minute—and that, too, would escape any attempt to grasp it, while I myself will escape and slip away—also forever—and like a pile of cold, futile flotsam, all my love and pain and even my faithfulness will drift away—forever. Yes, what else is “forever” but the final image of this world, and not just this world, but any world that we bind together with the illusory architecture of dreams and permanence—all our games and pleasures, all our ills and fears, loves and betrayals—it is, in short, the impulse that shapes not our everyday self, but the possible, never-achieved self that we pursue as one might pursue the trail of a neverto-be-requited love, and that becomes, in the end, only the memory of a lost love—but lost where and when?—in a place we do not know, but whose loss pierces us and, whether justifiably or not, hurls every one of us into that nothing or that all-consuming everything where we vanish into the general, the absolute, the perfection we so utterly lack.)
. . . All day I wandered about the empty house, unable to dredge up even enough courage to enter the drawing room. Ah, how painfully intense was the knowledge that she no longer belonged to me, that she was merely a piece of plunder to be manhandled by strangers without tenderness or understanding. Somewhere far from me, very far, they would be uncovering her now defenseless body, and with the sad diligence of the indifferent, would dress her for the last time, never even imagining that her flesh had once been alive and had often trembled with love—that she had once been younger, more splendid than all the world’s most blossoming youth. No, this was not the right death for her, at least, I had never imagined it would be like this, in the few difficult moments when I could imagine it—so brutal, so final, so unfair, like a young plant being torn from the earth.
But there was no point in remembering what she had been—or, rather, what we had been. Therein lay the explanation: two beings hurled into the maelstrom of one exceptional circumstance and suddenly stopped, brought up short—she, her face frozen in its final, dying expression, and me, still standing, although God knows for how long, my body still shaken by the last echo of that experience. I wanted only to wander through the rooms, as bare now as the stage when the principal actor has made his final exit—and all the weariness of the last few days washed over me, and I was filled by a sense of emptiness, not an ordinary emptiness, but the total emptiness that suddenly and forcefully replaces everything that was once impulse and vibrancy. Blindly, as if in obedience to a will not my own, I opened doors, leaned out of windows, walked through rooms: the house no longer existed.
Knowing this put me beyond consolation; no affectionate, no despairing words could touch me. Like a stock pot removed from the flame, but in whose depths the remnants still boil and bubble, what gave me courage were my memories of the days I had just lived through. Meanwhile, as if prompted by a newfound strength, I managed, once or twice, to go over to the room where she lay and half-open the door to watch what was happening from a distance. Everything was now so repellently banal: it could have been the same scene I had known as a child, had it not been transfigured, as if by a potent, irresistible exhalation, by the supernatural breath that fills any room touched by the presence of a corpse. The dining table, which, during its long life, had witnessed so many meals, so many family meetings and councils—and how often, around those same boards, had Nina herself been judged and dissected?—had been turned into a temporary bier. On each corner, placed there with inevitable haste, stood four solitary candles. Cheap, ordinary candles, doubtless found at the bottom of some forgotten drawer. And to think that this was the backdrop to her final farewell, the stage on which she would say her last goodbye.
I would again close the door, feeling how impossible it was for me to imagine her dead. No other being had seemed safer from, more immune to extinction. Even in her final days, when there was clearly no other possible denouement, even when, terrified, I understood from the silence and the stillness that she was condemned to die, even then I could not imagine her in the situation I saw her in now, lying on the table, wrapped in a sheet, her hands bound together in prayer, her eyes closed, her nose unexpectedly aquiline (I remembered her voice: “My father always said I had some Jewish blood in me . . .”). No other being had ever been more intensely caught up in the dynamic mechanism of life, and her laughter, her voice, her whole presence, was a miracle we believed would survive all disasters.
However hard I try to conjure her back, she is no longer here. So why speak of or even think these things? Sometimes, awareness of my loss strikes through me like lightning: I see her dead then, and such is the pain of losing her that I almost stop breathing. Why, why, I mutter to myself. I lean against the wall, the blood rushes to my head, my heart pounds furiously. What pain is this that afflicts me, what emotion, what new depths of insecurity, what is this complete and utter lack of faith or interest in my fellow human beings? But these feelings last only a fraction of a second. The sheer energy of our shared existence, the fact that she was still alive yesterday, that she touched my arm with her still warm hands and made a simple request, like asking me to close a window, all this restores to me an apparent calm, and slowly I repeat to myself: it’s true, but I no longer feel the same utter despair, my blood does not rise up before the undeniable truth that she is dead—and I feel as if I no longer believed it, that a last glimmer of hope still burned inside me. Deep in some passive corner of my mind, I imagine that, tomorrow, she will demand that I bring her some flowers, the same flowers that surrounded her in the last days, not as an adornment or a consolation, but as a frantic, desperate attempt to conceal the indiscreet presence of unavoidable tragedy. Everything grows quiet inside me, and that lie brings me back to life. I continue to imagine that soon I will go down the steps into the garden and pick violets from the bed nearest the Pavilion, where there are still clumps of violets to be found in the undergrowth; I imagine that if I walk around the garden, as I have done every day, I will be able to make up a small bouquet of violets and wrap them in a scented mallow leaf, while I repeat over and over, as if those words were capable of devouring the last shreds of reality: “It’s for her, these flowers are for her.” A kind of hallucination overwhelms me; I can hear her slow, soft voice, saying: “Put the flowers on the window sill, my love.” And at last I see her, intact, perfect and eternal in her triumph, sitting next to me, pressing the violets to her face.
Slowly I return to the world. Not far off, probably out on the verandah, a woman remarks how hot it is and mops her brow. I try to recast the spell—in vain, the voice has gone. Through the window, I see the sun beating down on the parched flower beds. Feeling my way cautiously through a now unrecognizable world, I walk down the hallway to the room where the body has been laid out. I know there must be a look of almost criminal hunger on my face, but what does it matter? I hurl myself on the coffin, indifferent to everything and everyone around me. I see Donana de Lara draw back in horror, and Aunt Ana regards me with evident disgust. Two pale hands, sculpted out of silence and greed, smooth the wrinkled sheet—I imagine they belong to Uncle Demétrio. But what do I care about any of them? Nothing more exists of the one thing that united us: Nina. Now, as far as I’m concerned, they have all been relegated to the past along with other nameless, useless things. I see her adored face, and am amazed to find it so serene, so distant from me, her adored son, who so often covered with kisses and tears that brow growing pale beneath the departing warmth, the son who kissed her now tightly closed lips, who touched the weary curve of her breast, kissed her belly, legs and feet, who lived only for her love—and I, too, died a little in every vein in my body, every hair on my head, every drop of blood, in my mouth, my voice—in every pulsing source of energy in my body—when she agreed to die, and to die without me . . .
. . . on the penultimate night, as we were waiting for the end, she seemed suddenly to get better and allowed me to come to her. I hadn’t seen her for days because, out of sheer caprice and because she was generally in such a foul mood even the doctor was frightened, she had forbidden all visits and ordered that no one should enter her room: she wanted to die alone. From a distance, and despite the darkness in the room—for she only rarely allowed the shutters to be opened—I could make out her weary head resting on a pile of pillows, her hair all disheveled, as if she had long since ceased to care. At that moment, I confess, my courage almost failed me and I could take not a single step forward: a cold sweat broke out on my brow. However, it did not take me long to recognize her old self, since she immediately addressed me in her usual reproving tones:
“Ah, it’s you, André. How could you be so inconsiderate when the doctor has plainly said that I must have complete and utter rest?”
Then in a slightly gentler tone:
“Besides, what are you doing in my room?”
Despite these words, she knew perfectly well, especially at that precise moment, that there was no need for either of us to pretend. I hadn’t asked to come in, she had been the one to order that her bedroom door be opened—giving in to who knows what impulse, what inner need to know what was happening outside her room? Perhaps she knew that for hours and hours, and days and days, I had not left her door, alert to any sign of life within—a thread of light, a whiff of medicine, an echo—for the slightest sound or sight or smell was enough to make my heart beat faster with anxiety. And so I bowed my head and said nothing. I would do anything, absolutely anything, to be allowed to stay a little longer by her side. Even if she were dying, even if the breath were slowly fading from her lips, I wanted to be there, I wanted to feel that human mechanism continuing to vibrate until the final spring broke. Seeing me so silent, Nina raised herself up a little on the pillows, gave a sigh, and asked me to bring her a mirror. “I just want to fix my face,” she said. And as I was about to leave, she called me back. This time her voice sounded quite different, almost affectionate, very like the way in which she used to speak to me. I turned, and she asked me to bring not only a mirror, but also a comb, a bottle of lotion and some face powder.
She said this in an almost playful tone, but I wasn’t fooled and could sense the silent, bitter agitation beating inside her. I hurried off to find these various things and returned to her side, eager to detect in this gay façade some flicker of genuine joy. She took the mirror first and, as if to avoid a nasty shock, very gingerly turned to regard her reflection—she looked at herself for some time, then again sighed and shrugged, as if to say: “What do I care? The day is sure to come when I’ll have to resign myself to not being pretty anymore.” It was true that she was very far from what she had been, but the same mysterious attraction that had once so captivated me was still there. That simple shrug of the shoulders was proof to me that the idea of dying was further from her mind than it seemed. This impression was confirmed when, leaning slightly on my arm, she asked in a voice that struggled to be confidential, but succeeded only in expressing a certain repressed anxiety:
“Tell me, André, does he know the state I’m in, does he know I’m at death’s door? Does he know this is the end?”
She was looking at me challengingly, and her whole being, concentrated and intent, was asking: “Can’t you see that I’m suffering in vain. You can tell me the truth, I know I’m not dying, that my hour has not yet come.” I don’t know now what I said—what did “he,” my father, matter?—and I turned away, precisely because I knew her hour had come, and that she would never leave what was now her deathbed. Nina saw what I was thinking and, placing one hand on my arm, said, trying to laugh as she did so:
“Listen to me, André: I’m better, I’m well, yes, almost better, I’ve none of the symptoms I had before . . . So don’t go thinking you’re going to rid yourselves of me just yet.”
And wrapping me in her warm, sickly breath, she added:
“I can’t wait to hear what he’ll say when he sees me back on my feet . . .”
I almost believed that her astonishing energy had finally triumphed over the germs of death deposited in her flesh. Reclining against the pillows—she was always demanding fresh ones, stuffed with light, cool cotton—she was busy smoothing her tangled hair, while I held the mirror for her. A divine fire, a marvelous presence seemed once again to be stirring inside her.
“The good times will return, won’t they, André?” she said as she struggled with her hair grown dry and stiff with fever. “And everything will be just as good as it was in the beginning, you’ll see. I’ll never forget . . .”
(How I longed to be free of those “good times”! She, alas, would not continue in time at all, but I would, and who would keep me company on the long journey ahead?) When I said nothing, she turned and winked at me, as if to prove that the memory of those days was still alive, days I was trying in vain to bury. And oddly enough, despite that attempt to put on a bright, vivacious, youthful air, there was a stoniness about her face, which lent that wink a grotesque, melancholy quality.
“Yes, of course, Mother,” I stammered, again bowing my head.
She shot me a glance in which there was still a remnant of her old anger:
“Mother! You’ve never called me ‘Mother’ before, so why start now?”
And I was so stunned that the mirror trembled in my hands:
“Of course, Nina, of course the old times will return.”
She continued struggling to untangle the knots in her hair, which formed a kind of halo around her head and seemed to be the one thing still alive: through its resurrected waves, a new spring, mysterious and transfigured, was beginning to flow through her veins.
“You need never be angry with me again, André, and you need never again spend hours sitting on the bench in the garden waiting for me.” And suddenly, as if giving in to the memory of that scene, her voice took on a velvety tone, tinged with a childish, feminine melancholy, in which I, deeply touched, felt all the pulsating force of her loving soul. “I’ll never again hide as I did that time, do you remember? And I’ll never pack my bags to go traveling alone.”
Tears, landscapes, lost emotions—what did any of that matter now? In my eyes, she seemed to be dissolving like a being made of foam. It wasn’t treachery or lies or even forgetting that was causing her to drown (and with me unable to save her), it was, instead, the impetus of what had once been and that she had so cruelly summoned up.
“Oh, dear God, please don’t!” I cried.
Then, still vibrant with emotion, still with the comb in her hand, she looked at me as if she had just woken up. And a great darkness filled her eyes.
“You don’t understand, do you, you’re too stupid!” she said.
And her hands—what proof did she need, what forgotten testimony, what lost memory?—reached greedily across the bedspread in search of mine. She leaned forward and I glimpsed her thin breasts beneath her nightdress. Intercepting that glance, she quickly adjusted her clothes, not that she was ashamed to reveal herself naked to me, but ashamed, rather, of her present ugliness. I turned away to hide the tears filling my eyes. And she, poor thing, had been so beautiful, her breasts so full and firm. Driven by some diabolical impulse, she suddenly, brutally, undid her nightdress and shook me hard, saying:
“Fool, why shouldn’t the good times come back? Do you really think it’s going to end like this? That’s just not possible. I’m not as ugly as all that, they haven’t taken everything from me, look . . .” and she tugged at my arm, while I kept my gaze firmly averted. “You see, it’s not all over yet. Perhaps we can move to some big city where no one will know about us.” (Did she really believe what she was saying? Her grip on my arm relaxed, her voice quavered.) “Ah, André, how quickly everything passes.”
She fell silent, and I could see that she was breathing hard. The entirely fictitious color in her cheeks fled, and her head lolled back. It wasn’t those wasted words that seemed to dispirit her most, but the vision of that false paradise she had been evoking. I tried to cheer her, saying:
“No, Nina, you’re right. We could move to Rio perhaps, where no one will know us.”
And I thought to myself: I could never hate her, it’s beyond my capabilities. Irrespective of what god or devil had conceived me, my passion was above all earthly contingencies. I knew only the feeling of that body breathing hard in my arms, and in the hour of her death, for she breathed exactly as she had in those moments of passion. In my innermost thoughts, I was sure nothing could save her, and that the pieces we held in our hands were of no use to us now. Love, travel, what did those words mean? On the empty board, fate had finally made its move. The solution no longer depended on our will alone, nor on what we did, regardless of whether our actions were good or bad—the peace for which we had so longed, would, from now on, be a time of resignation and mourning.
And yet even I wasn’t sure what provoked those thoughts—perhaps I was exaggerating, perhaps it was the influence of my naturally melancholic temperament. She was, after all, feeling better, she was talking and making plans, just as she used to. But something stronger than me, stronger than my own sad certainty and my clumsy interpretation of the facts, was telling me that it was precisely those words that spoke of the inevitable end, and that death had nailed to her bedhead the decree announcing eternal rest. She could make one final effort, she could laugh and insult me, or say she was leaving and abandoning Vila Velha forever, or simply devour me with hungry kisses—but I knew she was looking about her now with eyes that were no longer of this world, and I was capable of anything except lying to those eyes. What I saw rising up in them was like the sap rising up the trunk of a tree—except the branches were all dead, and no flower was about to bloom in that dying landscape. Yes, she could still kiss or caress me, but both kisses and caresses were directed at me as if I were no longer there. It wasn’t her soul, but her lips—impregnated with a thick saliva that was like the last residue of earthly passion and fleshly effort—that were trying to revive the delirium of the past. In the depths of that search, faces, situations, and landscapes bubbled away. And I said nothing, too moved to speak. In her struggle, she must have felt my silence. In her febrile state, she must have thought it was simply a remnant of ill feeling from one of our old arguments—and she perhaps blindly imagined that I could still be seduced by the future she laid out before me, a future in which I no longer believed. For I knew this was the final act, and an unstoppable sob rose in my throat and remained stuck there, preventing me from saying a word. Then, slowly, she ran her hand down my cheek to my lips.
“Ah, so that’s how it is!” she exclaimed in a voice of inexpressible sadness. “That’s how you show your gratitude to me for allowing you to come to my bedside? You’ve clearly already forgotten everything, André.”
Her fingers continued for some time to stroke my cheek and play upon my lips as if trying to cajole some laggardly word from them, and then, sitting up in bed, she again began mechanically combing her hair. Her eyes occasionally flashed like a gradually dying light, but it was the sign of a storm that was already moving off, leaving the ravaged countryside to sleep. And I could not have said what darkness it was that I sensed covering the landscape of her body, what moldering, grave-like smells already emanated from her words.
“You’re right, André,” she said at last. “You’re right. I understand now: you’ve finally found your path. All it took for you to realize you were on the wrong path was for me to step out of the way.” Her grave voice became enticing, wheedling. “But I know you, André, I know you can’t live without women. I bet you’ve already seduced one of the housemaids . . . an easy enough conquest, eh?”
Overwhelmed by grief, I cried:
“Nina!”
And when I leaned toward her, she pushed me away, almost violently.
“Don’t call me that. I forbid you to call me by my name.”
I withdrew, cowed by that voice so reminiscent of the old, authoritarian Nina. She regarded me in silence for a while, doubtless pleased with the effect of her treacherous words. Quietly, like someone gauging the impact of what she was about to say, she went on:
“I bet you’re already anticipating the hour of my death. You want to be free of me . . .”
“No!” I cried out desperately, flinging myself forward onto the bed. “How can you be so cruel, how do you even dare to say such things? You like to see me suffer, Nina, you always have . . .”
Yes, I knew this, but what did it matter now? All that mattered was being able to embrace her, cover her in kisses, and tell her one last time, before she departed, that we alone existed, and that heaven and hell and everything else were futile, childish notions. Scrabbling at the blankets, my head buried in them, I finally allowed my tears to flow freely—and I felt her body tremble beneath my touch, first withdrawing, then allowing itself to be caressed, as sensitive as a plant battered by a furious wind. Only then, when I had revealed my utter devastation, did peace seem to reign in her heart. She slowly stroked my hair.
“I’m so unhappy, André, so jealous. And yet you must stay and I must go . . .” and she sobbed quietly, as if not daring to make too much noise or to wipe away the tears streaming down her face. I looked up and dried her eyes with one corner of the sheet.
“Nina, I swear there’s no one else in my life. How could there be when I’ve known you?” Tentatively, and when she made no objection, I lay my head on her breast. What did I care if she was ill, or if the cracked, thirsty mouth of decomposition were about to burst from the very flesh my greedy lips had so often kissed?
Then she grasped my head firmly between her hands, and her hollow eyes fixed on mine:
“Swear again so that I can believe what you’re saying! You wouldn’t dare lie to a woman about to depart this world, would you?”
“Never,” I lied, and my voice sounded calm and decisive.
“Then swear, swear now!” she begged.
But swear what, dear God, swear that there was no other woman in my life, swear that she wasn’t at death’s door? And yet, with my face pressed to her bosom, I did swear and, if her peace of mind had depended on it, I would have sworn whatever she wanted me to and committed all kinds of perjury. When I looked up, she was gazing into my eyes, and in her eyes I saw the frightened, disoriented expression you see in the eyes of certain animals. It was as if she were staring beyond me and beyond my words into a world she could no longer understand. She let out a sigh, pushed me away, and went back to combing her hair. She must have exhausted all her strength, though, because the comb fell from her hands and she turned deathly pale, crying:
“André!”
I took her in my arms and gently repositioned her so that she was once more leaning against the pillows. She was breathing hard. Silence fell, and in that silence, all the objects one usually associates with illness—medicine bottles, rolls of cotton wool, pills, the whole accumulation of things that, for a moment, I had managed to ignore—suddenly reasserted themselves, as if tearing their way through a mist that had, until then, been omnipresent. I stood looking at her, and an unfamiliar machine, weaving who knew what dark, mortal web, began to function again inside her. I couldn’t say how long we stayed like that, until finally she came to and said:
“What happened? What’s wrong?”
I tried to calm her, saying that she was still weak and had probably talked more than she should have. She shook her head and answered in a strangely serene voice:
“No. That moment was a warning. There’s no doubt about it, André, the end is coming.”
She again took my hand in hers and lay very still. Someone, not that far away, gestured to me in the darkness. I had to leave. But I could feel time flowing through my whole being and fixing me to that spot as if I had put down roots. The doctor came over to me, touched my shoulder—he was a shy young man, who had only arrived from Rio a few days earlier—and indicated the door as if to say there was no point in my insisting. The world regained possession of my dream. Before leaving, however, I looked back one last time: Nina was sleeping, but nothing in her face bore any resemblance to that of a living person.
(That night, I walked endlessly about the garden, prowling up and down beneath the lit window of the room in which she lay. The doctor’s shadow came and went against the white backdrop of the wall. At one point, I saw my father bending over her; he looked even wearier than usual. What would he be feeling, what emotions would he be hiding in his heart, what sense of sad and entirely inappropriate pride? I even considered speaking to him, and in my mind there stirred something like an impulse to console, but my lips refused to utter a word and, when I met him on the steps, as he, like me, came down into the garden in search of solitude, I let him pass, my face a blank.)
. . . When I placed the flowers on her lap, she opened her eyes, and I saw then that she appeared already to have left this world. She could still repeat the same gestures as the living and even say similar words—but the vital force was leaving her body and she was standing on that impenetrable frontier from which the dead gaze back indifferently at the land inhabited by the living. And yet, out of some kind of survival instinct, or maybe it was mere habit, she took the violets in her hand and raised them slowly to her nose, just as she used to do in times past, except that she no longer breathed in the perfume with the same eagerness, and her face was now soft and expressionless. Her arm fell, and the violets scattered over the bed.
“I can’t,” she said.
Her voice was no longer recognizable either, it was a cold, mechanical thing, a sound uttered with great difficulty, still audible, but soft and insubstantial as cotton wool. I didn’t have the courage to say anything and simply stood by her side, asking God, with lips that lacked the flame of faith, to give me a little of her suffering. Roused perhaps by the flicker of consciousness that allows the dying briefly to distinguish some tiny detail in the surrounding heap of agglutinative shapes, she suddenly looked at me. Then, in a flash of recognition, she tried to conceal what was happening to her and turned away. And there we were, so near, so far, separated by that powerful presence. I had promised myself I would be sensible and would force the grief in my heart to keep silent, not because I cared what others might think, but purely in order to avoid creating the tense atmosphere of farewell that surrounds the dying. However, seeing her already half-immersed in night, and as far from me as if her presence were a mere memory, I felt beating in my breast a pulse of despair, of irrepressible anger. And by some bizarre coincidence—or perhaps it was simply the ineluctable nature of the hour—I sensed that both our memories were filled with images of times long gone. (Her, sitting by the pond on the day when I was so filled with desire for her and she touched my lips with her fingertips, saying: “Have you ever kissed a woman on the mouth?”—or on that other day when, sitting on a fallen tree trunk, she suddenly slapped my legs, crying: “Why, you’re almost a grown man!” And many other memories came flooding in, multiplying as if under the influence of some narcotic, forming a gigantic, colored spiral, in which her resplendent figure could be seen, like a sun visible from all angles.)
She turned to me as if she had read my mind:
“Ah, André, if only we could live again as we once lived!”
Not daring to take that thought any further, a thought too full of sinful ideas, ideas that should be repelled at that supreme moment, her hand brushed against one of the fallen violets and she picked it up as if trying to pluck a humble witness from the past, then let it fall again—and the flower dropped to the floor.
“But perhaps . . . perhaps . . .” I murmured, not even knowing what exactly I was trying to say.
At that word, a desperate flame, possibly her final plea to the fast-retreating material world, flared into life.
“Perhaps!” and her voice echoed around the room. “Ah, yes, perhaps, who knows, André?”
And she tried to sit up. Her cold, bony hand drew me toward her and, once again, with the same thirst the traveler feels as he pours out the last few drops of water from his canteen, her eyes sought mine—devouring my outer and my inner fabric, my final shape and form, my very being, in order to go beyond that sad, enclosed thing that is the very heart, the umbilical cord, of the material self, and to wander, lucid and uncertain, through my essential self, looking to see if the love that had bound us together was true—seeking, too, the final word, the farewell, the power, the suggestion and the love that had made of me the unique creature chosen by her passion. A cloud obscured my vision and I had to lean on the bed to steady myself.
“Who knows?” she said again. “Maybe this is not the end of everything. So many things happen, so many people recover.”
And drowning me in her burning breath, she added:
“Do you believe in miracles, André? Do you believe in the resurrection?”
When I did not immediately reply—feeling as if I had been hurled violently against some hard, dark wall—she shook me, dredging up strength from her impatience:
“You promised you would tell no lies. Come on, speak—do miracles exist?”
“No,” I answered, and was myself startled by the calm voice in which I said this. “Miracles don’t exist. And there is no resurrection either, Nina, for anyone.”
The silence that followed was so vast that I felt as if an unexpected twilight had descended upon us. The objects sitting coolly in their places were growing dull and turning into still, metallic shapes.
When she spoke again, her voice sounded as if it were rising up from the depths of a well:
“We’ll go somewhere far away, André. I hate this town, this house. And there are other places, there are, I swear, where we can live and be happy.”
I could stand it no longer and tried to free myself from her grasp. This went beyond anything I could bear. I would have preferred distance and solitude and never to see her again, rather than this face-to-face interrogation, in which not the smallest subterfuge was allowed. She sensed my reluctance, and her eyes filled with tears.
“You want to run away from me, don’t you? You want to run away, André. It’s not the same as it once was.”
I don’t know what superhuman energy was driving her just then, but thanks to those feelings, she had managed to sit up in bed, despite the beads of sweat running down her thin face and despite her broken breathing, as if she were about to faint. Now, instead of holding me only by my hand, she was tugging at my arm, my whole body, in a last effort to force me to submit. I struggled, because I was afraid she might die in my arms. I bent lower, although still without entirely giving in to her will, and since, in this ongoing battle, she continued to tug at me, her face sometimes touched mine and I felt rising up into my nostrils the stale smell of an ailing body that has spent too long in bed. This awoke in me only a feeling of intense, desolating pity for her. Our struggle lasted perhaps a minute, and when she finally realized she was going to lose, some instinct, some wounded, outraged female essence gripped her—and she raised her hand and slapped my face. It was a rather feeble slap, but I stared at her in astonishment, with eyes that held not even the faintest glimmer of resentment.
We gazed at each other and she managed to gasp out:
“You’re running away, André, running away from me. And that slap is so that you will never forget, so that you can say one day: she slapped my face to punish me for my indifference.”
And in a quieter tone, with a smile so sad I felt my heart contract:
“And so that you will never unthinkingly betray me, André. So that you will never lie and say: yes, I sinned, but it’s not something I’m proud of.”
Only then did the tears come into my eyes, not out of grief, because, by then, I was incapable of any emotion, but because I knew then that I could not help that poor, unfortunate creature still clinging to the last glimmerings of life. And what a life that had been, what a past, what a future she was evoking, making one final effort to imprison me, when nothing could now save us on that well-trodden path. Nothing. And how wretched we were, and how I felt in my own flesh the despair of that condemned creature. When I turned back to her, she saw the tears on my face.
“I’m a fool, André, I have no right to talk to you like that. I know that you and I, that our love can never die. How could you possibly forget me when I taught you everything you know?”
She fell silent, but kept her eyes fixed on mine, as if she wanted to drag from them the truth about the situation in which we found ourselves. It was easy enough to say that we, that our love would never die—but how to believe it, if all around us everything was slowly fading? Gravely, almost solemnly, she spoke again:
“I want you to remember, André . . . in case . . . in case anything should happen. I want you to remember and for your heart never to lose sight of me. I want you, on certain nights, to remember how I touched you—never to forget the first kiss we exchanged, next to that big tree by the Pavilion. I want you never to enter a garden without remembering the garden that was once ours. I want you never to wait for anyone else without remembering how you would wait for me on that bench where we used to meet. I want you always to remember the warmth of my body and the things I said when you took me in your arms. I want . . .”
I slowly knelt down. With almost frightening strength, fueled by a kind of yearning, she forced me to lay my head on her breast, to brush her cheek and her lips with my lips. But little by little, the pressure waned and, exhausted, she let her head droop to one side, her eyes closed.
....................................................................................................
The last night I saw her . . .
....................................................................................................
When I learned that Timóteo, my uncle, had been asked to leave the room and that it was now empty, I went straight there in order to say my final farewell. On the threshold I saw a figure with his back turned to me and realized at once that it was my father. He turned around as soon I approached and he seemed to me to have aged considerably, although he was still very erect and had the same irritatingly smug air of the country gentleman. I don’t understand why I felt so drawn to him just then—given that we didn’t even speak when we passed in the hallway. I think I’m right in saying, though, that only then did I fully grasp that the Meneses as a family no longer existed. I had come to say goodbye to a corpse—and, for a few seconds, it was that man who held my gaze, as if I had suddenly stumbled upon a dead body. A dead stranger, whom I had never seen before and did not know, who, as far as I was concerned, had no name and no identity. I stood rooted to the spot, anxiously asking myself if that feeling of estrangement was not the result of a long, patient process of separation. But, as I say, the odd thing was that I regarded him with an indifference that was there in my flesh, my blood, my nerves—I regarded him as if he were a being from another world whom we struggle to clothe in some kind of humanity. Perhaps drawn by my gaze, he walked toward me, but the coffin lay between us—then, automatically, and almost without being able to take his eyes off me, he approached the dead woman, removed the sheet covering her face and stared down at her. With that gesture, his humanity returned to him—and I felt sure that I was face to face with a complete stranger.
As soon as he moved away, I went straight over to the coffin and stopped short: it had been made by Senhor Juca and was a very simple affair, with metal handles and a plain fabric lining. Wrapped in a sheet, the body lay there without so much as a flower to adorn it. Perhaps she herself had requested that bare, Spartan simplicity.
Unhurriedly, and as timidly as if I were disobeying some secret law, I bent over and lifted one corner of the sheet. That was the first time I had ever seen the face of a corpse, and I had the strangest feeling, as if a distant, delicate music were playing inside my mind. How could a human face change so quickly! Her gentle, perfect features had suffered a violent transformation, from her almost excessively long eyelashes, to her pale, almost too broad forehead and the exaggerated curve of her nostrils, which lent her an unexpectedly semitic appearance. Rigor mortis had placed around that face an impenetrable aura. Death was clearly no joking matter; in death, the original being, roughly shaped out of clay by God’s hands, cast off all disguises to triumphantly reveal its true essence. It was clear, too, that there was nothing more to be said between us. Any unspoken words were useless now, as were any caresses not bestowed and the flowers with which we could still adorn her. Free now, she rested there in a state of ultimate purity. Everything, apart from fury and acceptance, was pointless. No answers, as if we creatures deserved nothing but mourning and injustice; it all ended there. And everything that had existed had been only a dream, a magnificent, fleeting sensory illusion. Nothing could ever remove the heavy weight pressing on my heart, and in that ruin already touched by corruption I found it hard to recognize the person who had once been the object of my love, and no tears came into my eyes, not even tears of pity.
In the same unhurried way in which I had lifted the corner of the sheet, I bent over and kissed the woman’s cheek—as I had done so many, many times before—but this time I felt the kiss was meaningless and that I no longer knew her.
