The Chandelier

  The next day she received the letter from her father notifying her of her grandmother’s death. She’d died unattended, during the night. The next morning the maid hadn’t heard the difficult knocking of the cane on the wooden floorboards and with relief had only gone to bring her milk later. There was the old lady sitting in bed, her shirt open atop her dry and rough chest, her eyes deeply surprised, her mouth open. Father had cried for days and nights. The burial took place in the rain, the relatives from the south already dressed in black and with bad colds. A day later they were taking the train back home each one taking a souvenir of the grandmother and a basket of provisions for the train journey — her father didn’t overlook anything, it was his family. He’d inherited the mansion and the surrounding lands. The other children got nothing because they’d abandoned the old woman when her desire would have been to live with everyone under the same roof; that roof dusty in its thick crusts, so vast that it could shelter dozens of men and women and that had always remained empty in the meadow full of wind. Her father was asking Virgínia to come spend a few weeks at the Farm, if she could break off her studies and her life in the city. Even her mother was under the weather with some trouble in her teeth.

  So she was going back. She stopped in front of the window in deep meditation. She wasn’t sad, she wasn’t happy, but pensive. To break off life in the city now that it was becoming a bit intelligible. Vicente. Ah but to see Daniel again . . . but Vicente. She knew that she’d already made up her mind to go yet was reasoning, doubting, doing the math with a certain vanity and with some satisfaction. At last she understood how clear the journey was inside her. So she gave in. For two days she didn’t go see Vicente, readying her suitcases, arranging coldly with Miguel to sell her furniture at a low price, explaining to him that of course she’d be back soon but would live in a boardinghouse, maybe in her cousins’ house — she was so busy! After a few interrupted thoughts she seemed to have decided to say nothing to Vicente about the departure. She was imagining how hard it would be to tell him and see in his face — ah she was guessing it — not surprise, disgust, yearning but that empty and delicate expression that he’d put on when he wanted to make his thoughts indecipherable. And there was also a cunning and extraordinarily feminine calculation — she was smiling almost voluptuous — in keeping the secret: a bit later he’d be bound to feel her absence, come look for her and Miguel would tell him . . . And then she’d show up! I like you, he’d said one day with a kind of stubbornness in his voice. She’d almost protested without strength: yes. I do, yes, he was repeating, you know, and his tone of voice kept going stubbornly as if he were fleeing something; his eyes absorbed and focused seemed to limit and not give in. Without knowing how to explain herself, the phrase almost offended her. Amidst her preparations she was stopping for an instant. Suddenly the journey was taking on a new meaning, she had very much wanted to go back to lay eyes on Quiet Farm . . . In a few instants her desire was growing acute almost with pain and she was feeling a laughing joy. Yes, to say see you later, mother, and go out into the fields, go out early into the wind, erase herself upon meeting the morning — that was what it meant to see Quiet Farm.

  Thus arrived the day before the day set for the departure and she was supposed to see Vicente for the last time. She’d woken up very early in the morning, got up but couldn’t do anything, stayed thoughtful and calm. Sometimes a long trembling would awaken her, she’d look around without understanding. The clock struck ten. But the time wasn’t hurrying as it did on other occasions. Now everything was peaceful, clean, arranged. She barely ate lunch, serious and somber. In the afternoon however, when she was supposed go out, her strange state grew more marked, she scrutinized herself almost annoyed without understanding herself and in light of that vagueness difficult to surpass like a void and that was holding back her movements. So it was missing Vicente . . . the city . . . what? almost irritated she sat on the edge of the bed with her mind made up to understand herself harshly. A long, calm sadness seized her. So! so . . . what’s this? she wanted to say to herself congenially, slap her own face delicately and end up with a smile. She was however so far from having that strength as she was whenever she tried to grasp it. As if she kept pushing herself and creating in herself fake urgings to wake herself up, an afflicted and tired unease took over her body like a slow nausea, her nerves sharpening anxious, in vain. Fast and vacant thoughts, almost feverish were occurring to her and she was vacillating without making up her mind. What then? what was happening? it vaguely seemed to her that she was going to Upper Marsh forever and that made her happy scaring her. What then? she was asking herself somber and enraged. The confusion was taming her but suddenly awakening almost in a scream: I have to go . . . Vicente . . . She was turning to the window, looking at the distant clock: yes, she should tell Vicente that she was leaving, that she loved him, that was it! how could she not have known, my God, that was it! the thought however hurt her terribly, she understood that the confession would leave her weak and that she only could depart with the vigor of her own secret and if she didn’t have to confront Vicente’s face. And why leave? she could still tell her father that she couldn’t interrupt her studies now . . . yes, why not give it up? she was telling herself filled with a trapped and crazy joy, she’d always created intolerable states for herself, she herself, she herself . . . yet she could break them off, now she could . . . Some thing had however been mutely decided and she could never take it back. — When she’d head to the table at the Farm and was going down the stairs one by one inevitably, she’d wonder: if I wanted to with all my strength could I break off the descent, go up and lock myself in my room? and she knew it wasn’t possible, that it wasn’t possible, that it wasn’t possible step by step and there she was perplexedly seated at the table with everyone. Now motionless without making up her mind, she suddenly remembered that she could make coffee to get herself moving and then drink it. And then drink it, and then drink it! she thought abruptly alive. But she wasn’t even getting up. She held back tired of herself, distractedly nauseated by her hot life, by so many moist, slow gestures, by her benevolence, by pleasure and by shelter in suffering — severity and dryness were what she now would vaguely desire, terrified by so many feelings, but she wasn’t managing anything, limp and watchful. The thought of making coffee shook her again with more vigor, my God, that would be rebirth, to drink clear, black, hot, perfumed coffee — world, world, her body was saying smiling mutely in pain. With a certain timidity she was observing how she was by herself. She could cry from joy, yes, because by drinking coffee she’d have the strength for everything. She pressed her face to the cold bed and warm tears, warm and happy ran, slowly they were growing into sobs, now in little sad sobs she was crying feeling the cold bed warming up beneath her cheek. In a movement of abandonment she no longer wanted coffee as if the still unmade coffee had gone cold while she was crying. She was opening her eyes, her face crumpled and aged, her eyelashes divided in sheaves by the water and the brightness was so white, so open, mild . . . buzzing in the air . . . the leaves waving . . . a wind drying her lips, stretching her damp skin. She was hesitating. She was feeling a long pleasure that was laziness, weakness, cravenness . . . — that sensation ah, while living one lives eternally, an almost queasiness in the blood as if she were fast giving in . . . Something curious and furrowed was occurring to her and disappearing, a feeling of irritated levity. And as if suddenly reacting in a jerk, she decided with a shudder of energy and confused hope to not have coffee but to go to Vicente and love him as she’d never loved him — closing her smiling and tired eyes she foresaw that her sensation had been so strong and high that it must have wounded her lover on some point of his body.

  Vicente stood and walked to the window. What was he waiting for anyway? for her to come. She’d disappeared several days ago without warning and that was somehow irritating and was bothering him; she was making herself remembered — and that was new. He was worn out, he thought while str
oking like a blind man the cold marble windowsill. He had worked a lot and grown tired, he completed while blinking his eyes in understanding. He had a long and elastic movement with his body, felt comfortable, almost consoled for the day he’d spent working alone. He saw reborn that intimate satisfaction that was the irresistible desire to be amidst others, to talk, to say goodbye with a laugh, a desire to hear the latest political news and to have lunch with a friend afterwards talking about fast women, to get a message to rush to meet in some place, a pleasure to walk while moving his legs and read the newspapers awaiting events — and at the same time that comfort that many people were awaiting events. Above all he’d organized deep within himself a strong and severe feeling, a permanent and not excessive concern for his health, a certain upright approach that would reemerge at the necessary moments. He looked for his cigarettes tapping his hands on his pockets, fumbling. He remembered Vera in white and he furrowed his thick eyebrows — yes, he saw her again while hoping to find his cigarettes as he himself then and now was repeating with pleasure that familiar gesture. He was clasping her arm squeezing her, bruising her: you’re so skinny! he was saying with raving and contented eyes. He surprised himself a little when he realized how he’d been livelier and more boyish then, felt a quick disgust that his concern with lighting the cigarette interrupted. Her well-made skinniness seemed to him like a stubborn malevolence and he was taking it like a loving offense. Whose punishment was love — he smiled with mischief and disguised his slightly queasy smile. You’re so skinny! he was saying angry and the two secretly, with a touch of hate and of awe, were understanding each other. The first time he’d talked, talked, she was listening, smiling, agreeing but not looking at him head-on perhaps uncomfortable? distraught? what was actually wrong? he wondered and again all his uneasiness was summed up in a blinking behind his glasses: could I have been too intelligent? Every time he’d slept with women they resurfaced in his mind gathered into one single spot beating with quick open life, a watchful, curious, mischievous, amusing, extremely tired, and hopeful spot. He wanted to hold on to the sensation but saw himself in the void, sitting in the armchair, his long legs spread, his feet, his hands, the living room, some flies. Vaguely what had been left over was the room with the flies and him almost waiting for Virgínia. He confusedly asked himself if he’d been tactful with all of them, thought with quick irony about how really they were the ones who would often hurt him, even Virgínia with certain . . . One day he’d said to her shy but irresistible: don’t pinch me. He blushed a little. As for Irene, he hadn’t been able to stand her anymore, connected her to her smiling and distraught husband once and for all, was nauseated with himself, feeling sorry for her and hating to run into the child, that uneasy and elegant family. How rude they were, how they cheated, how they burned, yes, how they burned and they wore themselves out. There was some thing in women that bothered him. Except Maria Clara. They end up wearing me out, they like me so much, he thought smiling at the anecdote. The courtesy, the strength with which I embrace them, the little prostitutes, simply delights them, he concluded curious and fatigued. His own acrid sensuality brought him a movement of dense drive inside his chest and a sharp repulsion. And that gesture of rejection wasn’t coming from his vigilance over himself but was his sensuality itself. He stood, the palm of his hand smoothed the rough skin just shaved, he glanced at himself quickly in the mirror — the sly gaze he had when he was alone; he almost grimaced with disgust at himself so sudden was the lack of relation between the face and the thought, he once more felt extremely annoyed at being alone. He went to the small terrace, leaned on the parapet looking at the distant street, the calm sea, the little people walking and stopping to look at the sea, the cars rushing by. Three girls were walking and stopping, laughing. He lingered fixedly upon them, his twisted face seeking the laughter from far off. To see so many girls so cheerful; if he fell in love with one of them, he’d detach her from the others and greet her as something odd and offended. Because more than seeing joyful girls joy itself was too much. That was annoying him. How well I know life, he thought with an avid satisfaction. He smiled. You cannot imagine how curious I am to know what’s going to happen to me, he said to Adriano. What was going to happen to him was in a way limited because wherever he found women he’d look at them. He was missing certain sensations that he’d never managed to grasp. But something kept not going well twirling around — almost as if that day were the anniversary of something that he with a certain pain and effort couldn’t quite recall — a defect? someone was waiting while laughing softly for him to remember, laughing in hot murmurs . . . Vera. Vera in white. In a thrust as if without roots he threw the cigarette off the balcony and looked somberly at the inaccessible street, thought then that Virgínia hadn’t come and said with rage that that was why the day seemed startlingly long, calm, and curving. It was a lie. Adriano would ask him from time to time about Virgínia, he who hadn’t asked about Maria Clara, about Vera and would laugh with a shaking pleasure about how Vicente deceived Irene’s whole family, including the child. Including the child — Vicente was astounded by Adriano with disapproval and hesitation. He felt once again that his friend had some thought about Virgínia, that he was giving her more importance than she deserved. But how to explain to Adriano that Virgínia was . . . wasn’t much? she had something stagnant and always dry, as if covered with leaves. Was that it? no, that wasn’t it, since he didn’t even know how to think let alone transmit his impression of vague disgust with that woman who seemed to be growing little by little in his hands and who wouldn’t make any man proud. Uncomfortable, uncomfortable, without giving pleasure . . . She’d so often greet him distracted, without concentration. He wouldn’t interrupt himself, fallen into an open-eyed astonishment, the curious sensation and almost laughing with surprise at squeezing in his arms some heavy, serious thing, without movements and without a trace of loveliness. Occasionally he’d say ironically, a little shy out of fear of hurting her: why don’t you hold me? she’d be taken aback: don’t I hold you? You don’t, he’d answer bemused, you let yourself be held. She’d restrain herself, strangely seeming to have thought the idea was funny. And one day he’d even told her baffled: don’t pinch me. Like blind people they’d find each other every once in a while with bashfulness, grace, and almost rage at the shame. Though he’d sometimes vaguely feel her trying to transform her own rhythm of looking and living in order to please him but he knew that for her this would be as hard as opening her eyes in the middle of a nightmare and sliding into a gentler dream. In short — he furrowed his eyebrows thinking it was comical, desperate, and awkward — in short, she was uncomfortable. What a nuisance! he thought trembling almost on purpose, shaking and freeing himself from the difficult sensation. Again he felt calm and severe. Once more he was trying to remember slowly, from the beginning, in the hope of striking upon the spot that was beating inside him without managing to open. He remembered when he’d met Virgínia — her body full and peaceful, her wispy bangs, pale neck and, above all, while on the piano her beautiful and arrogant brother was playing by heart an anxious and ardent waltz — she looked like a child withered, withered between the pages of a thick book like a flower. Her brother was playing filling the room. He remembered how the waltz had a rhythm full of slowness, he thought with a bit of warmth, a smile that looked good on him, on that fellow over there playing the piano with black, straight, well-combed hair, dressed for summer. Looking at Virgínia he hadn’t even felt a present despair but something like a recollection of a past despair, long since lost and therefore now forever without solution. He finished the thought with speed in order to carry on with another one that had crossed his mind — yes, Daniel had played the Merry Widow very well, by ear and with variations, exploring it in ways he’d never heard before, with ardor and power. The memory of the music, so rounded and calm, was what he was wanting and he started to whistle with sadness and pleasure. That way Virgínia had of lightly pressing her fingers to her lips, loving pa
thetically their softness. He’d asked her later to get rid of the bangs as if bothered by the nice and simple look that her appearance would take. Without bangs she was at least something like a big, cold woman, close to a type. At the same time how much she seemed to know about herself. He’d never remember to notice in all his life that he’d once loved a yellow flower in a cup of water. Yet after she’d speak, he’d think: but yes, but yes . . . I’d like that too or once did . . . She’d always be ready to take out with controlled deliberation a tattered souvenir from childhood like a moldy treasure with depths of smoke. And she’d fill the space with her small and secret silly chattering. Somehow whatever she was living was being added to her childhood and not to the present, never maturing her. Because of the way she was you could expect anything from her, even for her to die from one moment to the next without pain, without anything, leaving him baffled, almost guilty. With a certain surprise he realized that this thought had already occurred to him before and he connected it to the fact that she’d told him that someone, maybe a gypsy back where she was from who would err horribly in her prophecies, had predicted for her and Daniel a sudden death. He didn’t feel . . . He didn’t feel safe by her side, was always dreading whatever she might announce, had grown used to expecting from her placidity some uncomfortable word. Sometimes when he’d embrace her, she’d inquire with a sweet and tired voice and that inquiry was what he could recall as the most feminine part of her: and what if I died right now? There was in the inquiry a tone that left him, more than the question itself, devastated. Just like going full of enjoyment to take a drag from his cigarette and feeling it extinguished, cold, — cigarettes seemed to be his starting point, cigarettes and glasses. He laughed with a certain roughness: and it wasn’t that he didn’t think about death. If he could tell her: let’s forget it, let’s forget it. But he wouldn’t even know how to go on: let’s forget what? She was some thing to look at and then say to yourself: by God . . . , with a bit of rage. She wasn’t even pretentious like the brother. She wasn’t even beautiful like the brother. In fact, with surprise, she was nothing. And she must have changed exactly because he’d loved her that way. How sneaky she seemed. Yes, sneaky and virtuous. That light way of walking, those curled-up positions she’d come up with for her body, the way of talking with the person while having her gaze absorbed, all that made him bend toward her, her inaction would stimulate as Vera’s perfect thinness had stimulated him — he’d almost need to be provoked to anger and disdain in order to start to love and thus would feel extremely virile. But by now he was already wanting to see her differently. And he’d even ended up discovering that there was nothing underneath those lovely habits, just distraction and a certain fatigue which she never quite got over — that woman who’d never take up a sport. He’d thought there was a bit of posturing in her attitudes and that had attracted him. Her simplicity however would leave him with lifeless arms, her sincerity. Oh, please free yourself more from me, since a life so attached to mine weighs on me — he’d said to her one day during a fight; he noticed that he was always fighting by himself. But she had looked at him in such a weird, such a limpid and strange way that he’d fallen silent for an instant, surprised and pensive reduced to himself with a kind of pleasure and gratitude. In a low and serene tone of voice he’d then murmured some little thing that would guide them back into the flow of the days. No, it wasn’t their fault, it hadn’t been Vera’s: why is the person you live with the person you should flee? he was lying exactly to those women. He felt against Virgínia the rage of their loving each other, inexplicably, like a whim, the hard hatred of being stuck to a woman who’d do everything for them to be happy. The drive that was burning him was keen, making him breathe the most pure and sufficient part of revolt. He even made a gesture with his hand through her hair just to enhance her and also make her live outside herself. He detested her for making both of them live in a certain way calmly, hating her because she hadn’t even been the one who’d reduced him. But the same instant of hardness brought inside it a melancholy thought of peacefulness. Running and rerunning stubborn fingers over the delicate edge of the cigarette case, he closed his eyes a bit and imagined himself free from Virgínia, pursed his lips with fake toughness and fake joy such was the sincere power that he was experiencing — but to be free was to love again. Why would she demand less than he could give? he inquired being reborn and fleeing. And so uselessly mysterious. He’d happened to mention a man who worked in the pharmacy and she’d said: he’s my friend. How do you know him? he’d asked surprised, maybe a bit jealous. She hadn’t answered, making a reluctant movement with her head looking at a random spot on the floor with firmness and disgust. If he kept asking, she’d always answer: he’s my friend. After a while he’d found out in passing that she’d met him right there in the pharmacy, where they’d chatted a little while she was waiting for a prescription. So you couldn’t say they were friends: and why hide all that? she couldn’t have a reason to disguise such a simple fact. Just because she always liked not to say things, he’d guessed with disapproval and surprise. When he’d met her he’d tried to set up an intelligent courtship, thinking at first that she was that type: