Near to the Wild Heart

  Since she remained silent, he insisted further.

  — You promise too much... All the possibilities you offer people, within themselves, with a look... I'm at a loss to explain it.

  And just as she hadn't shown herself to be proud or diminished when he had first spoken ironically about her absurd extravagance, she didn't now gloat over Otávio's humility. He looked at her. Once again he had not known how to attach himself to that woman. Once more she defeated him.

  There was silence in the room and the light and emptiness settled on the white keys of the open piano. Something had died, slowly and truly died. It would be useless to reunite the happiness of living with that moment.

  — What comes next? — Otávio murmured, and this time he had succumbed to the essence of things, he had been drawn to Joana's truth.

  — I don't know — she said.

  Otávio studied her. What was on her mind, she seemed so remote? She appeared to be hovering in the centre of something mobile, her body floating, unsupported, almost non-existent. Just as when she started to relate things from the past and he could see that she was lying. Then Joana's head would slowly wander, she would gently incline her forehead, raise it again, begin to stammer. There was a calculated and solid nucleus to begin with but then everything became fluent and innocuous. And Otávio would look at her, oblivious of himself. He would end up in a state of anguish, for if he wanted to touch her he couldn't, there was an intangible circle around that creature, which was impenetrable and kept her apart. Bitterness then possessed him because he could not perceive her as a woman and his quality as a man became futile, and he was incapable of being anything other than a man. In cousin Isabel's garden white roses grew all those years ago. He had often admired them, perplexed, not knowing how to possess them, because in the presence of those roses his only power, that of a human being, was useless. He put them to his face, to his lips, he inhaled their perfume. They went on quivering, delicate and luxuriant. If only they had thick petals — he used to think — if only they were hard... if only their petals would give a dry sound when they dropped and hit the ground... Feeling the heightening beauty of those flowers penetrate him, like that of Joana, like that of Joana when she lied, he was seized by an impotent fury: he would crush them, chew them, destroy them.

  Looking at her now, without quite knowing how to define that face, he wanted to revive that old feeling, to find himself once more in cousin Isabel's garden.

  But in the absence of any other thought, he suddenly realized that Joana would go away. Yes, he would carry on, he had Lídia, the child, himself. She would go away, he knew... But what did it matter, he didn't need Joana. No, 'he didn't need her', yet he 'couldn't do without her'. And suddenly he just couldn't fathom how he had managed to live with her for so long. It struck him that after her departure he would simply have to untie the present to that distant past, cousin Isabel's house, Lídia, his bride-to-be, his plans to write a substantial book, his personal traumas, tepid, sweet and loathsome as depravity; to that past barely interrupted by Joana. It would be nice to be rid of her, to draw up plans for his book on Civil Law. He could already picture himself moving among his things with intimacy.

  But he also saw himself with strange and sudden clarity, one evening perhaps, feeling a twinge of pain in his chest, screwing up his eyes, aware that his hands were empty without even looking at them. The indefinable feeling of loss when Joana might leave him... She would surge inside him, not in his head like any familiar reminiscence, but in the centre of his body, vague and lucid, interrupting his existence like the sudden clanging of a bell. He would suffer as if she were telling the most outrageous lies, yet as if he were unable to expel that hallucination and were progressively inhaling it like air inside his body which might thankfully turn into water. He would feel the clean, open space inside his heart where none of Joana's seeds would bring afforestation, for she was as inviolate as future thought. Nevertheless, she was his, yes, deeply, diffusely, like some music one has heard. You're mine, mine, don't leave me! — he implored her from the depths of his being.

  But he would not utter such words for he wanted her to go, he wouldn't know what to do with Joana if she were to stay. He would go back to Lídia, pregnant and swollen. He gradually realized that he had chosen to renounce all that was most precious in his being, that tiny suffering portion which he succeeded in living beside Joana. And after a moment of suffering, as if he were abandoning himself, his eyes shining with fatigue, he sensed the futility of desiring something more for the future. Perplexed, he was finally witnessing his own strange, intense purification, as if he were slowly penetrating an inorganic world.

  — Do you really want a child? — he asked her. Terrified of the solitude into which he had ventured, he suddenly wanted to link himself to life, to lean on Joana until he could lean on Lídia, just as someone crossing an abyss clings to tiny boulders before clambering up the rock itself.

  We shouldn't know how to make it live... came Joana's voice.

  — Yes, you're right... he said uneasily. And he passionately longed to be with Lídia. To go back to her forever. He realized that this would be his last night with Joana, the last, the last...

  — No... perhaps I'm right, Joana continued. Perhaps one shouldn't think about any of this before having a child. One lights a bright lamp, everything becomes clear and safe, one drinks tea each afternoon, embroiders, but above all, a lamp brighter than this one. And the child lives. That's quite true... so true that you had no fears for the life of Lídia's child...

  Otávio did not flinch, he didn't as much as blink. But his whole being shrank and his pallor shone like a lit candle. Joana went on speaking at her leisure, but he didn't hear her because little by little, almost without thinking, fury surfaced in his heavy heart, dulled his hearing, clouded his vision. What... fury, stumbling and panting, raged inside him, so she knew about Lídia, about the child... she knew and kept silent... She deceived me... — That stifling burden weighed even more deeply inside him. She quietly condoned my infamy... she continued to sleep with me, to tolerate me... for how long? Why? but why, dear God!...

  — Bitch.

  Joana jumped, lifted her head rapidly.

  — You're despicable.

  His voice could scarcely control itself in that swollen throat, the veins on his neck and forehead stood out, thick and knotted, in triumph.

  — It was your aunt who once called you a viper. Yes, a viper. Viper! Viper! Viper!

  He was now shouting wildly, unable to control himself. Each cry could barely release itself from that convulsed source, vibrated almost gleefully in mid-air.

  She watched him beat his fists on the table, maddened, weeping with fury. For how long? Because Joana was aware, as if listening to music in the distance, that everything continued to exist and that those cries were not separate arrows, but were merging with what existed. Until suddenly spent and empty, he slumped into a chair. His face numb, his eyes dead, he sat staring at the floor.

  Both of them sank into solitary and peaceful silence. Perhaps years passed. Everything was as bright as an eternal star and they hovered so quietly that they could feel future time clearly revolving inside their bodies with the denseness of the long past which instant by instant they had just lived.

  Until the first light of dawn began to disperse the night. In the garden, the darkness frayed like a veil and the sunflowers trembled in the nascent breeze. Dim lights, however, still flickered in the far distance as if coming from the sea.

  The Man's Departure

  The following day she received a note from the man saying goodbye:

  'I've had to go away for a spell, I had to go, they came to look for me, Joana. I'll be back, I'll be back, wait for me. You know that I'm nothing, I'll be back. I shouldn't even be able to see and hear if it weren't for you. If you abandon me, I'll go on living a little longer, the time a little bird can stay in mid-air without flapping its wings, then I'll drop, I'll drop from the sky and die.
Joana. The only thing that prevents me from dying this very moment is that I'll be back. I can't explain it but through you I'm able to see. God help me and You, for there is no one like you. I'll be back. I never spoke all that much to you, but it was out of kindness: I'm not breaking my promise am I? I understand you so well, so well, should You want anything from me, you need only ask. May God bless you, here's my little medal with St Christopher and St Teresa of Lisieux.'

  She folded the note carefully. She recalled the man's face during those last days, his eyes running and bleary like those of a mangy cat. And the skin around them, livid and inflamed like the gloaming. Where had he gone? His life was undoubtedly confused. A confusion of facts. And she had the impression that in a sense he was disconnected from those facts. The woman who sustained him, that distraction in relation to himself, like someone who has had no beginning and expects no end... Where had he gone? He had suffered a great deal during those last days. She should have spoken to him, he had truly expected it, but afterwards, distracted and thoughtless, she had forgotten.

  Where had he gone? — she wondered, her arms empty. The whirlwind spun round and round and set her down once more at the beginning of the road. She looked at the note with its delicate, indecisive lettering, the phrases written with care and difficulty. Once again, she could see her lover's face and she couldn't help admiring those striking features. She closed her eyes for a second, inhaled once more the odour that came from the gloomy corridors of that unexplored house, with only one room revealed, where she had experienced love anew. The smell of old apples, sweet and old, coming from the walls, from their depths. Once again, she could see the narrow bed which had been replaced by a large, soft one, the nervous pleasure with which the man had opened the door that day and seen Joana's face, taking her by surprise. The tiny ship, almost submerged by the exceedingly green waves. She half-closed her eyes and the ship lurched. But everything had slid over her, nothing had possessed her... In brief, a mere pause, a single note, weak and pure. It was she who had violated that man's soul, who had filled it with a light whose evil he still hadn't fathomed. She herself had scarcely been touched. A pause, a note, faint and without any resonance...

  Once more a circle of life that was closing. And she herself in Otávio's tranquil and silent house, sensing his absence in each place where only the day before his things had still existed and where there was now a void lightly covered in dust. Fortunately, she hadn't seen him leave. And fortunately, during those first moments, upon noticing her dismay that he had gone, she still believed she possessed her lover. 'Upon noticing that Otávio had gone'...? — she thought. But why lie? The person who had gone was herself and even Otávio knew it.

  She changed out of the clothes she had worn to visit the man. That woman with the moist, loose lips must be suffering, alone and old in that big house. Joana didn't even know his name... She didn't want to know it, she had assured him: I want to know you through other sources, to pursue your soul along other roads; I want nothing of your past life, neither your name, nor your dreams, nor to hear of your sufferings, the mystery clarifies more than any revelation; and I forbid you to start probing anything about me. I am Joana, you are a living body, I am a living body, that's all.

  What a fool, what a fool, perhaps she might have tolerated and loved him then had she known his name, been aware of his hopes and sufferings. It's true that the silence between them might have been more perfect. But what was the use ... They were simply living bodies. No, no, even better like this: each with a body, driving it onwards, eagerly seeking to get the most out of it. Avidly trying to climb over the other, pleading, full of cunning and touching cowardice for a better existence, a better existence. She interrupted herself, holding her dress in one hand, alert and liberated. She became aware of the solitude in which she found herself, at the centre of an empty house. She sensed that Otávio was with Lídia, a fugitive beside that pregnant woman, full of seeds for the world.

  She went to the window, felt the cold air on her bare shoulders, watched the earth where the plants were thriving peacefully. The globe was moving and she was standing on it. Beside a window, the sky overhead, clear, infinite. It was useless to take refuge in the suffering of every love affair, to rebel against events, for the facts were simply a tear in her dress, the silent arrow pointing to the heart of things, a river that dries up leaving the river-bed exposed.

  The chilly night air brought her skin out in goose-pimples; Joana found it difficult to think clearly — there was something in the garden that dislocated her from the centre, causing her to waver... She remained on the alert. Something was trying to move inside her, responding, and through the dark cavities of her body, waves came surging, light, fresh and ancient. Almost frightened, she wanted to bring that feeling to her consciousness, but found herself being pulled further and further back in sweet vertigo, by gentle fingers. As if it were morning. She examined herself, suddenly alert as if she had advanced too far. Morning?

  Morning. Where had she once been, in what strange and miraculous land had she set foot to be now inhaling its perfume? Dry leaves on the moist ground. Her heart slowly contracted, opened, she did not breathe for a moment, waiting ... It was morning, she knew that it was morning... Withdrawing as if being led by a child's delicate hand, she heard, muffled as in a dream, chickens scratching at the soil. A warm, dry soil... the clock chiming ping... ping... the sun showering tiny yellow and red roses over the houses... God, what was that if not she herself? but when? not always...

  The pink waves darkened, the dream fled. What was it that I lost? what was it that I lost? It wasn't Otávio, already far away, it wasn't her lover, the wretched man had never existed. It occurred to her that the latter must be trapped, she pushed the thought from her mind impatiently, escaping, rushing headlong... As if everything were part of the same madness, she suddenly heard a nearby cockerel ring out its vigorous and solitary cry. But it isn't daybreak, she said trembling, smoothing her cold forehead... The cockerel didn't know it was about to die! The cockerel didn't know it was about to die! Yes, yes Daddy, what is there for me to do? Ah, she had lost the rhythm of a minuet... Yes... the clock had chimed ping, she had stood on tiptoe and the world had turned much more slowly at that moment. Were there flowers somewhere? And she felt a great desire to melt away until her fibres merged with the beginning of things. To form but one substance, rose-coloured and sweet — breathing gently like a rising and falling womb... Or was she wrong and was that feeling real? Was what existed in that remote instant something green and obscure, the anticipation of continuance, and impatient or patient innocence? empty space... What word could convey just then that something had not condensed and lived more freely? Open eyes floating amidst withering leaves, white clouds, and way down below the countryside stretched out as if it were embracing the earth. And now... Perhaps she might have learned to speak, only this. But the words floated on the surface of her impenetrable sea, and they were hard. Before the sea was pure. And all that remained of the past, flowing within, light and tremulous, was a little of that ancient water amidst gravel, sombre and cool under the trees, the dead leaves and chestnuts covering the verges. God, how sweetly she plunged into incomprehension of herself. And how much easier still, to abandon herself to that ebbing tide, firm and gentle. And to return. She would have to reunite herself to herself one day, without those hard and solitary words... She would have to merge herself and become once more the sea mute unruly powerful wide motionless blind living. Death would unite her with infancy.

  But the iron gate was made by men: and there it was gleaming beneath the sun. She observed this and the shock of this sudden perception made her a woman once more. She trembled, lost in a dream. She wanted to go back, she wanted to go back. What was she thinking about? Ah, death would unite her with infancy. But now her eyes, turned outwards, had become cold, now death was different, since men made the iron gate and since she was woman... Death ... And suddenly death was merely cessation... No! she cried o
ut in terror, not death.

  She now ran ahead of herself, already remote from Otávio and from the man who had disappeared. She mustn't die. For...truly where was the death inside her? — she slowly asked herself, with cunning. She opened her eyes wide, still not believing in this question, so novel and fascinating, which she had allowed herself to invent. She walked up to the mirror, looked at herself- still alive! Her pale neck sprouting from delicate shoulders, still alive! -searching for herself. No, listen! listen! the beginning of death did not exist inside her! And as if she were violently pervading her own body, searching, she felt an upsurge of vitality, her whole body opening up to breathe...

  So she couldn't die, she then thought slowly. Little by little this fragile thought took a deep breath, expanded, became compact and solid, like a block adapting to its form. There was no space for another presence, no room for doubt. Her heart pounding furiously, she listened carefully. She burst out laughing, a tremulous, bubbling laugh. No... But it was so clear... No, she wouldn't die because... because she could not end. That was it, that was it. A sudden apparition, that of a little old man, perhaps a woman, several blurred human forms merged into one, shaking its head, denying, growing old. No, she told them quietly from the depths of her new truth, no... the forms gradually faded, for she had always been. For her body had never needed anyone, she was free. She walked through the streets. She drank water, she had abolished God, the world, everything. She would not die. It was so easy. She stretched out her hands not knowing what to do with them now that she knew. Perhaps she should caress herself, kiss herself, filled with curiosity and gratitude upon recognizing herself. No longer adhering to reason, it seemed to her that it was so illogical to die, that she checked herself, now bewildered and filled with terror. Eternal? Violent... The most fleeting reflections and as brilliant as sparks criss-crossing like electric currents, merging as sensations rather than as thoughts. She altered without transition, in tiny leaps, from place to place, ever higher, clearer and more tense. And from one moment to the next, she fell more deeply within herself, into caverns of milky light, breathing loudly, filled with fear and joy because of the journey, perhaps like those sudden descents when one is asleep. The intuition that those moments were fragile made her stir herself gently, fearful of touching herself, of disturbing and dissolving that miracle, the tender creature of light and air who was trying to live inside her.