Near to the Wild Heart (15 page)

Joana smiled, but she could not avoid the suffering that began to throb throughout her entire body like some bitter thirst. More than suffering, a craving for love swelling and overwhelming her... Caught up in a light, hazy maelstrom, like sudden vertigo, she became conscious of the world, of her own life, of the past from beyond her birth, of the future beyond her body. Yes, lost like a point, a point without dimensions, once, a thought. She had been born, she would die, the earth... A fleeting, intense sensation: a blind immersion into a colour — crimson, tranquil and expansive as a field. The same violent, instantaneous awareness that sometimes assailed her in great moments of love, like a drowning man who is seeing for the last time.

— My... — she began in a low voice.

But all that she might say was not enough. She was living, living. She watched him. How he slept, how he existed. She had never been so aware of him before. When she had made love to him during those first months of their marriage, she had been fascinated to discover her own body. The renewal had been hers, she had not given herself rapturously to this man and had remained isolated. Now suddenly she understood that love could make one desire the moment that comes in that impulse which is life... — She could feel the world gently throbbing in her breast, her body ached as if she were bearing the femininity of all women.

She fell silent once more, peering into herself. She remem- bered: I am the tiny wave that has no other region except the sea, I tussle with myself, I glide, I fly, laughing, giving, sleeping, but alas, always within myself, always within myself. Since when? Something I read as a child? Thought? Suddenly she remembered: she had thought of it just now, perhaps before placing her arm on that of Otávio, perhaps at that moment when she had felt like screaming... Everything was increasingly in the past... And the past was as mysterious as the future...

Yes... and it had also come, as fast as a silent car out of control, the man she sometimes met in the street... that man who stared at her, silent, thin and as sharp as a knife. She had already felt it vaguely that night, leaning on her conscience like the point of a needle... like a premonition ... but at what moment? In her dream? During her vigil? A new flux of pain and life began to swell and inundate her, with the anguish of being imprisoned.

— I... — she began timidly addressing Otávio.

It was getting darker, she couldn't see him except as a shadow: he became more and more blurred, slipped through her hands, lay dead in the depth of her sleep. And she, solitary as the ticking of a clock in an empty house. She waited, seated on the bed, wide-eyed, the chill of approaching dawn penetrating her flimsy nightdress. Alone in the world, crushed by the excess of life, listening to the blare of music, much too loud for any human being.

But release came and Joana trembled at its impulse... Because gentle and sweet as daybreak in a forest, inspiration came.. .Then she invented what she must say. Her eyes closed, submissive, she uttered in a whisper words born at that moment, hitherto unheard, still tender from creation — new and fragile buds. They were less than words, merely disconnected syllables, meaningless, lukewarm, that flowed and criss-crossed, fertilized, were reborn in a single being only to separate immediately, breathing, breathing...

Her eyes moistened with sweet happiness and gratitude. She had spoken... The words preceding language itself, from its source, its very source. She went up to him, giving him her soul, while feeling sated as if she had absorbed the world. She was like a woman.

The sombre trees in the garden secretly guarded the silence, she knew, she knew... She fell asleep.

Lídia

The following morning was like a first day all over again, Joana felt.

Otávio had gone early and she had blessed him for it as if he had intentionally given her time to think, to observe herself. She didn't wish to rush into any decision, she felt that any of her movements could make her precious and dangerous.

They had been seconds, nothing but fleeting moments. For she received Lídia's letter inviting her to call.

Reading those words had made Joana smile even before provoking these rapid, heavy heartbeats. And also the cold, steel blade resting against the warmth inside her body. As if her deceased aunt had come back to life and were speaking to her, Joana imagined the old woman's alarm, felt those open eyes — or were they her own eyes that she denied any surprises? Had Otávio returned to Lídia, despite Joana? -her aunt would say.

Joana ran her fingers through her hair, absorbed the cold blade resting against her warm heart, she smiled once more, oh, simply to gain time. But of course, why not continue with Lídia — she answered her dead aunt. This lucid thought caused the icy blade to press on her lungs, mocking her. Why refuse to accept events? To possess many things at the same time, to feel in various ways, to recognize life from different sources... Who could prevent someone from living expansively?

Afterwards she plunged into an odd state of mild excitement. She wandered aimlessly through the house, she even wept a little, without much suffering, just for the sake of weeping — she persuaded herself- nothing more, just like someone waving their hand, like someone looking. Am I suffering? — she sometimes asked herself and once more the one who was thinking filled her with surprise, curiosity and pride and there was no room left for the other to suffer. But this subtle exaltation did not permit her to continue on the same plane for very long. She passed at once to another tone of behaviour, she played a little piano music, forgot Lídia's letter. When she remembered her, vaguely, a bird flying to and fro, she couldn't decide whether to be sad or happy, calm or anxious. She kept thinking of the previous night, of the tall window pane shining serenely in the moonlight, of Otávio's bare chest, of Joana who had fallen into a deep sleep. Almost for the first time in her life, entrusting herself to the man who lay asleep at her side. In fact, she had not distanced herself from the Joana full of affection from the night before. Ashamed, humble and rejected, the latter had wandered until returning and Joana was increasingly more cruel, more absorbed and closer to herself — she thought. So much the better. Except that the cold steel was constantly being renewed, never became warm. Especially at the core of any thought there hovered yet another, perplexed, almost bewitched, as on the day her father died: things happened without her inventing them...

In the afternoon she could at last observe Lídia and she realized that she was as remote from her as from the woman with the voice. They looked at each other and could not bring themselves to hate or even spurn each other. Lídia had raised, pale and discreet, various topics of no interest to either of them. Her nascent pregnancy floated throughout the entire room, saturated her and penetrated Joana. Even those sombre pieces of furniture with their crocheted mats, appeared to be protected by the same secret soon to be revealed, by the same waiting for a child. Lídia's eyes were wide open and shadowless. Such a beautiful woman. Her lips full but impassive, without the slightest tremor, the lips of someone who is not afraid of pleasure, who receives it without remorse. What poetry supported her existence? What was that murmuring trying to say which she could divine inside Lídia? The woman with the voice multiplied into countless women... But where was their divinity to be found? Even in the most vulnerable of those women there lurked the shadow of that knowledge you don't acquire through intelligence. The intelligence of blind things. The force of the stone which, on falling, pushes another which will finally drop into the sea and kill a fish. Sometimes the same strength could be found in women who were only superficially mothers and wives, the timid mistresses of men, like her aunt, like Armanda. Meanwhile that strength, that unity in weakness... Oh, perhaps she was exaggerating, perhaps the divinity of women was not specific, it was only in the fact that they existed. Yes, yes, there was the truth: they existed more than men, they were the symbol of the thing in the thing itself. And woman was the mystery in itself, she discovered. There was to be found in all women a quality of primary matter, something that might define itself but never came to be realized, for its very essence was that of 'becoming'. For was it not precisely through that essence that the past united itself to the future and to all time? Lídia and Joana remained silent for one drawn-out moment. They didn't exactly feel themselves united, but without any need of words, as if they had really come together simply to look at each other and then go away. The strangeness of their situation became clearer when the two women felt that they were not fighting. In both there was a gesture of impatience, both still had a duty to perform. Joana pushed it aside, suddenly satisfied:

— Well — the tone of her voice roused her abruptly — I think our meeting is over.

Lídia was astonished. But how? If they hadn't as much as said anything! Most of all, she loathed the idea of something unfinished:

— We haven't said anything yet... And we must have a chat.. .Joana smiled. In that smile I begin to act out weariness — not with any force — but exactly as I should in order to impress her. What are these foolish thoughts?

— Don't you think — Joana asked — that we're straying from the subject that brought us together? If we discussed it, at least it would now be without interest or passion... Let's leave everything for another day.

For an instant the image of the man struck them as being blurred and importune. But Lídia knew that the moment that woman disappeared, the apathy and torpor to which she had reduced her, leaving her powerless to move, would also vanish. And once roused, she would want the child. The little family. She made an effort to emerge from that drowsiness, to open her eyes and put up a fight.

— It's silly to lose the opportunity...

Yes, let's buy the article, let's buy the article. I feel exhausted after all that work preparing for the party. Joana burst out laughing again, a laughter void of any happiness.

— I know that I can expect nothing from you, the pregnant woman suddenly resumed forcefully — a cloud uncovering the sun, everything shining brightly once more and brimming with life. Joana also brightened, could feel the cloud uncovering the sun, everything bubbling gently hand-in-hand in a leisurely ring-a-ring o'roses, like that played by children.

But suddenly the girl pushed herself and her pregnancy in one last effort to wake up:

— I know you, I know just how evil you are.

Now the room was coming back to life.

— Ah, you know?

Yes, it was coming back to life, it roused Joana. What am I saying? How dare I come here? I am far away, far away. You only need to look at that woman to realize that she couldn't possibly like me. The steel suddenly rested on her heart. Ah, the jealousy, that was jealousy, that cold hand kneading her slowly, squeezing her, shrinking her soul. With me, the following happens or else threatens to happen: from one moment to the next, by moving in a certain manner, I can transform myself into a thin line. Just like that! into a streak of light, so that the person is just at my side, unable to surprise me or my imperfections. Meanwhile Lídia has various planes. With every gesture another aspect of her dimension is revealed. At her side no one slips or is lost for they can find support on her breasts — solemn, restful and pale, while mine are futile — or on her belly where there is even room for a child. I mustn't exaggerate her importance, for a child may be born in the womb of all women. She is so beautiful and a woman. Tranquil, primary matter, despite all other women. What's in the air? I'm alone. Those full lips Lídia possesses, so sensuous and clearly outlined with bright lipstick, while the one I use is dark, invariably scarlet, scarlet, scarlet, the face white and thin. Those brown eyes of hers, enormous and steady, perhaps they have nothing to offer, but they receive so much that no one could resist them, least of all Otávio. I am a feathered creature. Lídia is covered in hair and Otávio is lost between us, defenceless. How can he escape from my brilliance and from promise of flight or from the self-assurance of that woman? We two women could form an alliance and provide for humanity, we could leave early each morning and go from door to door ringing the bell: Which does madam prefer: mine or hers? and we would deliver a child. I can see why Otávio didn't separate from Lídia: he is always ready to throw himself at the feet of those who walk ahead. He cannot look at a mountain without being impressed by its solidity, he cannot look at a woman with an ample bosom without wanting to rest his head there. How impoverished I am alongside her, so confident and self-possessed. Or I light up and become magnificent, instantly magnificent, or I become obscure, and swathe myself in drapes. Lídia, whatever may be said of her, never changes, always has the same clear foundations. My hands and hers. Mine — outlined, solitary, roughly sketched back and front, with careless haste by a brush soaked in an insipid white; I'm forever raising my hand to my forehead, forever threatening to leave it suspended in mid-air, oh how futile I am, only now do I see it. Lídia's hands — are clearly defined, attractive, covered by pliant skin, pinkish, yellowish, like a flower I once saw somewhere, hands that rest on things, full of authority and wisdom. My whole being swims and floats, I cross what exists with my nerves, I am nothing if not desire, wrath, vagueness, as impalpable as energy. Energy? but where is my strength? in vagueness, in vagueness... And investing it with life, not the reality, but merely the vague impulse forward. I want to astonish Lídia, to turn the conversation into something strange, subtle, evasive, but no, but yes, no, but why not? She suddenly remembered Otávio, stirring and blowing his cup of coffee in order to cool it, his expression serious, interested and ingenuous. To surprise Lídia, yes, to draw her... Like that time at boarding school, when she suddenly felt the need to test her influence, to feel the admiration of her school-mates with whom she generally had little contact. Then she would coldly put on an act, inventing, resplendent as if wreaking vengeance. She emerged from the concealment of silence to engage in battle: