Near to the Wild Heart (18 page)

When the door opened to Joana, he ceased to exist. He had slipped to the very depths of himself, he hovered in the penumbra of his own unsuspected labyrinth. He now moved lightly and his gestures were agile and new. The pupils of his eyes became dark and dilated, suddenly transformed into a slender creature, as nervous as a colt. Meanwhile the atmosphere had become so lucid that he could perceive the slightest movement from any living thing around him. And his body was simply recent memory, where sensations would adapt themselves as if for the first time.

The tiny white ship floated over rough waves, green, brilliant and unruly — he saw her lying there, studying the tiny picture on the wall.

— On the third, Joana continued in a soft, clear voice, with small rounded intervals, on the third, there was a grand parade on behalf of new-born infants. It was amusing to watch people singing and carrying flags full of all the non-colours. Then a man got up as feeble and swift as the breeze that blows when someone is sad and calls from afar: I. No one heard him, but he was almost satisfied. And just then the mighty gale started up that blows from the north-east and trampled over everyone with its great fiery feet. Everyone returned to their homes, wilting and scorched by the heat. They pulled off their shoes, loosened their collars. Their blood ran slowly, trickling through their veins. And the most awful feeling of not-having-anything-to-do crept into their souls. In the meantime, the earth continued to go round. That was when a little boy was born and given a name. The child was beautiful. Enormous eyes that saw, delicate lips that felt, a thin little face that felt, a high forehead that felt. His head large. He walked like someone who really knows the place, slipping effortlessly among the crowd. Anyone following him would arrive. When he was moved, when he was surprised, he shook his head, slowly like this, like someone being offered more than he expected. He was beautiful. And above all, he was alive. And above all, I loved him. I was born, I was born, I was born. Now a verse. The thing I wish for, my darling, is to see you always, my darling. As I saw you today, my darling. Even should you die, my darling. Another verse: I once heard a flower sing and quietly rejoiced: Then drawing near, what wonder did I find, not a singing flower, but a bird hovering there.

Joana's words tailed off as if she were dreaming. Through her half-closed eyes, the ship floated to one side in the picture, the objects in the room were strung out and luminous, one object growing from another. For if we already knew 'that everything was one', why go on seeing and living? The man, his eyes closed, had buried his head on her shoulder and listened to her dreaming without sleeping. From time to time, she heard within the living silence of that summer afternoon, muffled, unhurried movements coming from the creaking floorboards. It was the woman, the woman, that woman.

On those first visits to the big house, Joana had felt like asking the man the following questions: Is she now like a mother to you? Is she no longer your lover? Even though I exist, does she still want you to live with her? But she had always held back. Meanwhile, the presence of the other woman was so powerful in the house, that the three of them formed a couple. And Joana and the man never felt themselves to be entirely alone. Joana had also wanted to ask the woman herself: But this had been an earlier thought. For one day she had caught a glimpse of her, the woman's broad shoulders concentrated into an indissoluble lump of anguish beneath her black lace dress. She had also watched her at other fleeting moments, passing from one of the rooms into the lounge, giving a quick smile, rushing off with a horrible expression on her face. Then Joana had discovered that she was someone alive and black. Big ears, sad and heavy, with a dark orifice like a cave. The simpering, furtive, inviting glance of a whore, without glory. Her lips moist, chapped, large, smothered in lipstick. How she must love the man. Her hair was fine and sparse and reddish from constant dyeing. And the room where the man slept and received Joana, that room with curtains, almost free of dust, had in all certainty been tidied up by her. Like someone sewing her own child's shroud. Joana, that woman and the teacher's wife. What was it that finally united them? The three diabolical graces.

— Almonds… Joana said, turning to the man. The mystery and sweetness of words: almond... listen, pronounced carefully, the voice placed in the throat, resounding deep down in the mouth. It vibrates, leaves me long and stretched and curved like a bow. Almond, bitter, poisonous and pure.

The three graces, bitter, poisonous and pure.

— Remind me of that saying... — the man asked her.

— What saying?

— The one about the sailor. When you love a sailor, you love the whole wide world.

— How awful... — Joana laughed. I know: I myself said that it must be so true that it has always had that jingle. But I can't remember the rest.

— He was spending his Sunday in the square. He was on the pier... — the man helped her.

One day, breaking the silence which he kept up when he was with Joana, he had tried to make conversation:

— I've never been much good.

— Yes, she replied.

But everything that's happened wouldn't make you go away...

— No.

— Even this woman... this house... It's different, can't you see?

— I do.

— I know that I've always been like a beggar. But I've never asked for anything, there was no need and I didn't know. But then you came. I used to think: nothing was bad. But now... For you're always telling me such crazy things, believe me, I can't...

At this point she raised herself on one elbow, suddenly looking serious, her face bent over him: Do you believe in me?

— Yes... — he replied, startled by her violence.

— You know that I don't lie, that I never lie, not even when... not even? Do you hear? Tell me, tell me. Then the rest wouldn't matter, nothing would matter... When I say these things... these crazy things, when I don't want to know about your past, and I don't want to tell you anything about myself, when I invent words... When I lie, do you feel that I'm not lying?

— Of course, of course...

She was stretched out on the bed once more, her eyes closed, weary. It doesn't matter, it doesn't matter if he doesn't believe me afterwards, if he runs from me like the teacher. Meanwhile, lying here beside him, she could think. And meanwhile is also time. She opened her eyes and smiled at him. A little boy, that's what he is. He must have had many women, been much loved, he's attractive, with those long eyelashes, those cold eyes. Before he was harder. I've mellowed him a little. That woman is waiting for me to go away forever one day. For him to return.

— What was he doing on Sunday in the square? The square is wide and deserted, she finally said slowly, trying to remember in order to answer his question: Yes... So much sun, trapped on the ground as if it came from there. The sea, the sea's swell, silent and breathless. The fishes on Sunday, rapidly twirling their tails and tranquilly continuing to force their way through. A stationary ship. Sunday. The sailors strolling along the pier, through the square. A pink dress appearing and disappearing round the corner. The trees crystallized on Sunday — Sunday would remind you of Christmas trees — shining in silence, holding their breath, like so, like so. A man out walking with a woman in a new dress. The man wishes to be nothing, he walks beside her, almost looking into her face, asking, asking: tell me, bully me, trample me. She making no reply, smiling, pure Sunday. Satisfaction, satisfaction. Pure sadness without any heartache. Sadness that seems to come from behind the woman in pink. The sadness of Sunday on the pier, sailors on loan to terra firma. That gentle sadness is proof of living. And since one doesn't know how to make use of this sudden knowledge, there comes sadness.

— This time the story was different — he complained after a pause.

— That's because I'm simply narrating what I saw, not what I'm seeing. I'm incapable of repeating things, I only know things once — she explained to him.

— It was different, but everything you see is perfect. He wore a chain round his neck with a tiny gold medal.

On one side St Teresa, the Little Flower, and on the other side St Christopher. He revered these two saints:

— But I don't pay much attention to saints. Just occasionally.

She had once told him that as a little girl she could spend a whole afternoon playing with one word. So he would ask her to invent some words. She had never loved him more than at such moments.

— Tell me again what Lalande means — he implored Joana. It's like angel's tears. Do you know what angel's tears are? A kind of daffodil, the slightest breeze bends it backwards. Lalande also means the sea at dawn, before anyone has set eyes on the shore, before the sun has risen. Each time I say: Lalande, you should hear the fresh and salty sea-breeze, you should walk the length of the beach still covered in darkness, slowly, stark naked. In a word, you will feel Lalande... You can trust me, no one knows the sea better than I do.

He did not know at certain moments if he was alive or dead, if everything he possessed was little or too much. When she spoke, she would invent like mad, like mad! Plenitude filled him, as great as a charm, and his anguish was that of the clear expanse above the water. Why did he feel intimidated in her presence, as bewildered as a white wall in the moonlight? Or he might suddenly awaken and call out: who is this woman? she is superfluous in my life! I can't... I want to turn back... But he no longer could — he suddenly sensed in terror, realizing that he was lost.

— Dearest — she said, interrupting the man's thoughts.

— Yes, yes... — He hid his face on that comforting shoulder and she remained there, listening to his breathing pervade her back and forth, back and forth. They were both creatures. What else matters? — she thought. He moved, rested his head on her bare flesh like... like an insect, a flea blindly searching for the nucleus, for the living centre. Or like a child. Outside, the world slipped away, and day, day, then night, then day. She would have to go at some time, to tear herself away once more. He too. From her? Yes, soon she would become a burden to him with her surfeit of miracles. Like other people, inexplicably ashamed of himself, he would long to be off. But as an act of revenge: he would not free himself entirely. He would end up being surprised at himself, compromising himself, haunted by an uncertain and anguished feeling of responsibility. Joana smiled. He would finish up hating her, as if she were demanding something from him. Like her aunt, her uncle, who respected her even though suspecting that she did not enjoy their pleasures. In some confused way, they imagined her to be superior and despised her. Oh God, once more she was remembering, telling her own story to herself, justifying herself. She could ask the man for confirmation: am I like this? But what did he know? She buried her face on his shoulder, hid herself, possibly happy at that moment. To shake him, to tell him: Joana was man like this, man. And so she became a woman and grew old. She believed herself to be very powerful and felt happy. So powerful that she imagined she had chosen these paths before venturing there — simply by thinking about them. So unhappy that, believing herself to be powerful, she didn't know what to do with her power and saw each minute as being lost because she had failed to guide it towards some objective. That's how Joana grew, man, as tall and slender as a pine tree, and full of courage, too. Her courage had grown inside the room plunged into darkness and luminous worlds had formed, without fear or shame. She learned from childhood to think, and since she had never seen any human being up close except herself, she was deceived, suffered, lived a painful pride, sometimes superficial but nearly always difficult to bear. How can one end Joana's story? If she could gather and magnify the look I spied in Lídia: no one will love you... yes, let's end it like this: despite her being one of those free and solitary creatures in the world, no one ever thought of giving anything to Joana. Not love, they always offered her some other sentiment. She lived her life, eager as a virgin — that's to say, for the tomb. She asked herself lots of questions, but was never able to provide the answers: she paused in order to listen. How did a triangle come to exist? Was it an idea to begin with? or did that come after it had found its form? Was a triangle fated to exist? things were beautiful. — She would have liked to linger over the question. But love invaded her. Triangle, circle, straight lines... as harmonious and mysterious as a harp. Where is music stored when it isn't playing? — she asked herself. And lost in thought, she replied: let them make a harp from my nerves when I die.

The last of Joana's lucidity merged with the crooked ship moving over the waves. She only had to nod her head for the waves to accompany it. But she had had something, oh yes she had. A husband, breasts, a lover, a house, books, bobbed hair, an aunt, a teacher. Auntie, listen to me, I've met Joana, the one I'm telling you about. She was a weak woman in relation to things. At times, everything seemed to her to be too precise, untouchable. And, sometimes, what others used as air for breathing, became a burden and death for her. See if you can understand my heroine, Auntie, listen. She's vague and bold. She doesn't love, no one loves her. You would end up noticing it just as Lídia, another woman — a young woman full of her own destiny — noticed it. However what's inside Joana is something stronger than the love one gives and what's inside her demands more than the love one receives. Do you see what I mean, Auntie?

I wouldn't call her a hero like the one I promised Daddy. For in her there was a terrible fear. A fear preceding any judgement or understanding. — This has just occurred to me: who knows, perhaps faith in future survival comes from noticing that life always leaves us untouched.

— Do you understand, Auntie?  — I forget the interruption of future life — do you understand? I can see your open eyes watching me with fear, with mistrust, yet wanting, nevertheless, as an affectionate old woman — now dead, it's true, now dead — to love me, overlooking my cruelty. Poor thing! the worst rebellion I ever sensed in you, apart from the ones I provoked, can be summed up in that saying you repeated nearly every day, and which I can still hear, mingled with your scent which I shall never forget: 'If only we could go out in the clothes we're wearing!' What more can I tell you? I've had my hair cut short, tinted brown, sometimes I wear it in a fringe. I'm going to die one day. I've also been born. There was the room with the two of them. He was good-looking. The room went round a little. It became transparent and warm, a veil that kept coming closer and closer. The three of them formed a couple, but to whom could she tell this? She would be able to sleep because the man never slept and he would keep watch like the falling rain. Otávio was also good-looking, with those eyes of his. This was a child an insect flowers whiteness warmth as sleep is for the moment time for the moment life itself that later... Everything like the earth a child Lídia a child Otávio earth De profundis...