But once I had every light in the museum burning all night long. That was the second time I made discoveries in the basement.
I was ill. I hoped that I might find a medicine cabinet somewhere in the museum. There was nothing upstairs, so I went down to the basement and—that night I forgot my sickness, I forgot the horrible, nightmarish existence I was leading. I discovered a secret door, a stairway, a second basement. I entered a many-sided room, like those bomb shelters I have seen in movies. The walls were covered with strips of a material that resembled cork, and with slabs of marble, arranged symmetrically. I took a step: through stone arches I saw the same room duplicated eight times in eight directions as if it were reflected in mirrors. Then I heard the sound of many footsteps—they were all around me, upstairs, downstairs, all through the museum. I took another step: the sounds faded away, as if they had been muffled. (It reminded me of the way a snowstorm on the cold highlands of my Venezuela deadens all the noises within earshot.)
I went upstairs, back to the silence, the lonely sound of the sea, the quiet movement of the centipedes. I dreaded an invasion of ghosts or, less likely, an invasion of the police. I stood behind a curtain for hours, perhaps minutes, irked by the hiding place I had chosen (I could be seen from the outside; and if I wanted to escape from someone in the room I would have to open a window). Then, mustering my courage, I searched the house, but I was still uneasy, for there was no mistake about it: I had clearly heard myself surrounded by moving footsteps all through the building, at different levels.
Early the next morning I went down to the basement again. The same footsteps seemed to surround me again, some close, others farther away. But this time I understood them. Annoyed, I continued to explore the second basement, intermittently escorted by the diligent swarm of echoes, many dimensions of the same echo. There are nine identical rooms in the second basement, and five others in a lower basement. They appear to be bomb shelters. Who built this place in 1924 or thereabouts? And why did they abandon it? What sort of bombings were they afraid of? And why should men who could plan such a well-constructed building make a shelter like this, which tries one's mental equilibrium: when I sigh, for example, I can hear the echoes of a sigh, both near and faraway, for two or three minutes afterward. And when there are no echoes, the silence is as horrible as that heavy weight that keeps you from running away in dreams.
From my description the attentive reader can obtain a list of more or less startling objects, situations, facts; the most startling of all, of course, is the sudden arrival of the people who are up on the hill as I write. Are these people connected in some way with the ones who lived here in 1924? Did these visitors build the museum, the chapel, the swimming pool? I find it difficult to believe that one of them ever stopped listening to "Tea for Two" or "Valencia" long enough to design this building, which abounds in echoes, but which is bombproof.
One of these people, a woman, sits on the rocks to watch the sunset every afternoon. She wears a bright scarf over her dark curls; she sits with her hands clasped on one knee;
her skin is burnished by prenatal suns,- her eyes, her black hair, her bosom make her look like one of the Spanish or gypsy girls in those paintings I detest.
(Although I have been making entries in this diary at regular intervals, I have not had a chance to work on the books that I hope to write as a kind of justification for my shadowy life on this earth. And yet these lines will serve as a precaution, for they will stay the same even if my ideas change. But I must not forget what I now know is true: for my own safety, I must renounce—once and for all—any help from my fellow men.)
I had nothing to hope for. That was not so horrible—and the acceptance of that fact brought me peace of mind. But now the woman has changed all that. And hope is the one thing I must fear.
She watches the sunset every afternoon; from my hiding place I watch her. Yesterday, and again today, I discovered that my nights and days wait for this hour. The woman, with a gypsy's sensuality and a large, bright-colored scarf on her head, is a ridiculous figure. But still I feel (perhaps I only half believe this) that if she looked at me for a moment, spoke to me only once, I would derive from those simple acts the sort of stimulus a man obtains from friends, from relatives, and, most of all, from the woman he loves.
This hope (although it is against my better judgment) must have been whetted by the people who have kept me away from her: the fishermen and the bearded tennis player. Finding her with the latter today annoyed me; of course I am not jealous. But I was not able to see her yesterday either. As I was on my way to the rocks, the people who were fishing there made it impossible for me to come any closer. They did not speak to me, because I ran away before they saw me.
I tried to elude them from above—impossible. Their friends were up there, watching them fish. The sun had already set when I returned: the lonely rocks bore witness to the night.
Perhaps I am leading myself into a blunder that will have dire consequences,- perhaps this woman, tempered by so many late afternoon suns, will betray me to the police.
I may be misjudging her; but I cannot forget the power of the law. Those who are in a position to sentence others impose penalties that make us value liberty above all things.
Now, harassed by dirt and whiskers I cannot eradicate, feeling inordinately the weight of my years, I long for the benign presence of this woman, who is undoubtedly beautiful.
I am certain that the greatest difficulty of all will be to survive her first impression of me. But surely she will not judge me by my appearance alone.
There were three large floods in the past two weeks. Yesterday I almost drowned. The water catches me off guard. I studied the marks on the tree, and calculated the tide for today. But if I had been asleep early this morning I would be dead now. The water rose swiftly with that unusual intensity it has once a week. I cannot account for these surprises; they may be due to mistakes in my calculations, or to a temporary change in the schedule of the high tides. If the tides are always subject to such variations, life in this area will be even more precarious. But I shall survive it. After all, I have been through so much already!
I was sick, in pain, feverish, for a long time,- very busy try- i ng not to die of hunger; unable to write (and hating my fellow men).
When I arrived at the island, I found some provisions in the storeroom of the museum. In a very old, charred oven I made an inedible bread of flour, salt, and water. Before very long I was eating flour out of the sack (with sips of water). I used everything that was there, including some spoiled lamb tongues. I used up the matches, allowing myself just three a
day. (I I eel the deepest respect for the men who first learned how to kindle fires; how much more advanced they were than we!) I had to work for many days, lacerating myself in the process, in an effort to make a trap. When I finally succeeded, I was able to add fresh, bloody birds to my diet. I have followed the tradition of recluses: I have also eaten roots. I learned to recognize the most poisonous plants by the pain I suffered, the attacks of fever, the dreadful discoloration of my skin, the seizures that obliterated my memory, and the unforgettable fears that filled my dreams.[2]
I am miserable. I have no tools down here. This region is unhealthy, sinister. But a few months ago the mere thought of a life like this would have seemed too good to be true.
The daily tides are neither dangerous nor punctual. Sometimes they lift the leafy branches I sleep upon, and I wake up in a mixture of sea water and the muddy water of the marshes.
I hunt during the afternoons; in the morning the water is up to my waist, and the submerged part of my body feels so large and heavy that I can scarcely move. In compensation for these discomforts, there are fewer snakes and lizards. But the mosquitoes are present the whole day, the whole year long.
The tools are in the museum. I hope to be brave enough to try to go and get them later. But that may not be necessary after all—perhaps these people will disappear; perhaps they are merely hallucin
ations.
The boat, on the beach at the eastern part of the island, is inaccessible now. But my loss of it is not important; all I have really lost is the satisfaction of knowing that I am not a captive, that I can leave the island if I wish to. But was I ever really able to leave? That boat has been a kind of inferno to me. When I came here all the way from Rabaul, I had no drinking water, no covering for my head. The sea is endless when you are in a rowboat. I was overwhelmed by the sun, by fatigue. I was plagued by a burning sensation and by dreams that never ceased.
Now I spend my days trying to distinguish the edible roots. I have come to manage my life so well that I do all my work and still have time to rest. This makes me feel free, happy.
Yesterday I lagged behind; today I worked continuously; still there is more work left for tomorrow. When there is so much to do, I do not have time to think about the woman who watches the sunsets.
Yesterday morning the sea invaded the sandbanks. I never saw a tide of such proportions. It was still rising when the rain started (the rains here are infrequent, very heavy, and accompanied by strong winds). I had to find shelter.
I climbed the hill in spite of the odds against me: the slippery terrain, the intense downpour, the strong wind, and the dense foliage. I thought that perhaps I could hide in the chapel (it is the most unfrequented place on the island).
I was in one of the anterooms where the priests eat breakfast and change their clothes (I have not seen a member of the clergy among the occupants of the museum), and all at once two people were standing there, as if they had not arrived, as if they had appeared only in my sight or my imagination. I hid—nervously, stupidly—under the altar, among the red silks and laces. They did not see me. I am still amazed at that.
Even after they had gone I kept on crouching there uncomfortably, frozen, peering cautiously between the silk curtains beneath the main altar, concentrating on the sounds of the storm, watching the dark mountains of the anthills, the un- dulant paths of large, pale ants, the agitation on the tile floor. I listened to the rain pelting against the walls and the roof, the water stirring in the eaves, the rain pouring on the path outside, the thunder. I could hear the confused sounds of the
storm, the rustling trees, the pounding surf resounding on the shore, and I strained my ears to isolate the steps or the voices of someone who might be approaching my hiding place, for I did not want to be taken by surprise again—
I began to hear the fragments of a concise, very faint melody. Then it faded away completely, and I thought of the figures that appear, according to Leonardo, when we look fixedly at damp spots on a wall for any length of time. The music came back; and I listened to it, still crouching, my vision blurred, my body agitated, but thrilled by the beauty of its harmony. In a little while I dared to edge my way over to the window. The water was white on the glass, and opaque, and it was almost impossible to see—I was so taken aback that I was not even afraid to look out through the open door.
The people who live here are dreadful snobs—or else they are the inmates of an abandoned insane asylum! Without any audience (or perhaps their performance has been for my benefit from the beginning), they are enduring discomfort, even risking their lives, in an attempt to be original. And I am not saying this because of my own bitterness: it is the truth. They moved the phonograph out of the green room next to the aquarium, and there they are, men and women together, sitting on benches or sprawling on the ground, chatting, listening to music or dancing, in the midst of a torrential downpour that threatens to uproot all the trees!
Now the woman who wears the scarf has become indispensable to me. Perhaps my "no hope" therapy is a little ridiculous; never hope, to avoid disappointment; consider myself dead, to keep from dying. Suddenly I see this feeling as a frightening, disconcerting apathy. I must overcome it. After my escape I managed to live with a kind of indifference to the deadly tedium, and as a result I attained peace of mind. Now I am contemplating a move that may send me back to my past or to the judges; but anything would be preferable to the utter purgatory I am living in.
It all started a week ago. That was when I first observed the miraculous appearance of these people; in the afternoon I stood by the rocks at the western part of the island, trembling. I told myself that all this was vulgar: like any recluse who had been alone too long, I was falling in love with a woman who was nothing but a gypsy. I went back to see her the next afternoon, and the next. She was there, and her presence began to take on the quality of a miracle. After that came the awful days when I did not see her because the fishermen and the bearded man were there,- then the flood came, and I tried to protect myself from its devastation. This afternoon I am afraid. But more than that I am angry at myself. Now I must wait for those people to come and get me at any moment. If there is a delay it can only mean they are setting a trap for me. I shall hide this diary, invent some explanation, and wait for them near the boat, ready to fight, to escape. But I am not so worried about the dangers I am facing—I am most concerned about the mistake I made—it can deprive me of the woman forever.
After I had bathed, and was clean but more unkempt looking than ever (the humidity has that effect on my beard and hair), I went down to see her. This was my plan: I would wait for her by the rocks, and when she arrived I would be watching the sunset. That would change her surprise, her probable suspicion, to curiosity. Our common devotion to the setting sun would make a favorable impression on her. She would ask my name, we would become friends—
It was very late when I arrived. (My lack of punctuality exasperates me—to think that in the civilized world, in Caracas, I was always late deliberately,- that was one of my most personal characteristics!)
I ruined everything. She was watching the sunset, and suddenly I jumped out from behind some boulders. With my hairy face, and standing above her, I must have appeared more hideous than I actually am.
I imagine they will be coming to get me any moment now. I have not prepared an explanation. I am not afraid.
This woman is not just a gypsy. Her aplomb astounded me, for she gave no indication that she had seen me. She did not blink an eye, or make the slightest movement of any kind.
The sun was still above the horizon, hovering as a kind of mirage. I hurried down to the rocks. I saw her: the bright scarf, her hands clasped on one knee, her glance, enlarging my little world. My breathing became uncontrollable. The rocks, the sea, everything seemed tremulous.
As I watched her, I could hear the ocean with its sounds of movement and fatigue close at hand, as if it had moved to my side. My agitation diminished somewhat. And I began to doubt that she could hear my breathing.
Then, while waiting to speak to her, I was reminded of an old psychological law. It was preferable to address her from a high place,- that would make her look up to me. The elevation would compensate, at least in part, for my defects.
I climbed higher on the rocks. The effort made me feel weak. Other things that made me weak were:
My haste: I felt obliged to speak to her that very day. If I wanted to keep her from feeling afraid of me—we were in a lonely place and it was growing dark—I could not wait a minute longer.
The sight of her: As if she were posing for an invisible photographer, she surpassed the calm of the sunset. And I did not wish to interrupt that.
Speaking to her would be an alarming experience. I did not even know whether I had any voice left.
I watched her from my hiding place. I was afraid that she would see me, so I came out, perhaps too abruptly. Even so, her composure was not altered; she ignored me, as if I were invisible.
I hesitated no longer. "Please, young lady," I said, "will you please listen to me," but I hoped she would not listen, because I was so excited I had forgotten what I was going to say. The words "young lady" sounded ridiculous on the island. And besides, my sentence was too imperative (combined with my sudden appearance there, the time of day, the solitude).
I persisted: "I realize you may not wish
—"
But I find it impossible now to recall exactly what I said. I was almost unconscious. I spoke in a slow, subdued voice with a composure that suggested impropriety. I repeated the words, "young lady/' I stopped talking altogether and began to look at the sunset, hoping that the shared vision of that peaceful scene would bring us together. I spoke again. The effort I was making to control myself pitched my voice even lower, and increased the indecency of my tone. After several more minutes of silence, I insisted, I implored, in what was surely a repulsive manner. And finally I became ridiculous. Trembling, almost shouting, I begged her to insult me, to inform against me even, if only she would break the terrible silence.
It was not as if she had not heard me, as if she had not seen me; rather it seemed that her ears were not used for hearing, that her eyes could not see.
She did insult me, in a sense, by showing that she was not afraid of me. Night had fallen when she picked up her basket and walked slowly up the hill.
The men have not come to get me yet. Perhaps they will not come tonight. Perhaps the woman is unusual in this respect, too—she may not have told them about seeing me. It is very dark tonight. I know the island well: I am not afraid of an army, if it tries to find me at night.
It has been, again, as if she did not see me. This time I made the mistake of not speaking to her at all.