Near to the Wild Heart (2 page)

Not to blame myself. To seek the basis of egoism: all that I am not is of no interest to me, it is impossible to exceed oneself — meanwhile I surpass myself even without delirium, I am more than my almost normal self— I possess a body and all that I might do is the continuation of my beginning; if the civilization of the ancient Mayas doesn't interest me, it's because I have nothing inside me that may be connected with its bas-reliefs;. I accept everything that comes from me because I have no perception of the causes and I may be treading unawares on what is vital; that is my greatest humility, she surmised.

The worst thing of all is that she could obliterate all her thoughts. Once erected, her thoughts were statues in the garden and she passed through, taking a good look as she went on her way.

She was happy that day and she also looked pretty. She was even a little feverish. Why this romanticism: a little feverish? But the truth is that I do have a little fever: bright eyes, this strength and weakness, irregular heart-beats. When the light breeze, the summer breeze, caught her body, she shivered all over with cold and heat. And then she thought in a flash, unable to pause and invent: It's because I'm still very young and whenever they touch or do not touch me, I feel — she reflected. To think now, for example, of fair streams. Precisely because fair streams don't exist, do you understand? this is how one escapes. Yes, but those streams gilded by the sun, are fair after a fashion... In other words I didn't really imagine it. Always the same fiasco: neither evil nor imagination. In the first, in the final centre, the simple sensation without adjectives, blind as a rolling stone. In her imagination, for it alone has the power of evil, there is merely the vision enlarged and transformed: beneath it, the impassive truth. One lies and stumbles on the truth. Even in freedom, when she gladly chose new paths, she recognized them afterwards. To be free was to proceed in the end, and here once more is the path traced out. She would only see what she already possessed within herself. Now that the pleasure of imagining had been lost. And the day when I wept? — there was also a certain temptation to lie — I studied mathematics and suddenly sensed the tremendous and chilling impossibility of the miracle. I looked through that window and the only truth, the truth which I could never tell that man to his face without his running away from me, the only truth is that I am alive. Truly, I am alive. Who am I? Well, that is asking too much. I am reminded of a chromatic study by Bach and my intellect fails me. It is as cold and pure as ice, yet one can sleep on it. I lose consciousness, but no matter, I find the greatest serenity in hallucination. How curious that I'm unable to say who I am. That is to say, I know perfectly well, but I cannot bring myself to say it. Most of all, I'm afraid of saying it, because the moment I try to speak, not only do I fail to express what I feel, but what I feel slowly transforms itself into what I am saying. Or at least, what makes me act is not what I feel but what I say. I feel who I am and the impression is lodged in the upper part of my brain, on my lips — especially on my tongue — on the surface of my arms and is also coursing inside me, deep down inside my body, but where, precisely where, I cannot say. The taste is grey, faintly tinged with red, touches of blue on the worn parts, and it moves slowly like gelatine. Sometimes it becomes sharp and wounds me, colliding with me. Very well, now let's think of a blue sky, for example. But above all, where does this certainty of being alive come from? No, no, I am not well. For no one asks himself those questions and I... But the fact is that it's enough to remain silent in order just to see beneath all the realities, the one irreducible reality, that of existence. And beneath all the doubts — the chromatic study — I know that everything is perfect, for it has followed from scale to scale its fatal path in relation to itself. Nothing escapes the perfection of things, that is the history of all things. But this does not explain why I am moved when Otávio coughs and puts his hand to his chest, like this. Or when he smokes, and the ash falls on his moustache, without his even noticing. Ah, pity is what I feel at such moments. Pity is my way of loving. Of hating and communicating. Pity is what sustains me against the world, just as one person lives through desire and another through fear. Pity for the things that happen without my knowing. But I am tired, despite my happiness today, a happiness which comes from who knows where, like that of a summer dawn. I am tired, I am now desperately tired! Let us weep together, softly. At having suffered, and let us continue to suffer sweetly. Weary sorrow reduced to a tear. But now it's a craving for poetry, this I confess, dear God. Let us sleep holding hands. The world goes round and somewhere there are things unknown to me. Let us sleep on God and on mystery, a quiet, fragile ship floating on the sea, there you have sleep.

Why was she so ardent and light, like the air that comes from the stove when it's uncovered?

The day had been like any other, which might explain this upsurge of life. She had woken up filled with the light of day, inundated. Still in bed, she had thought about sand, the sea, the time she drank sea-water at her aunt's house before the old woman died, about feeling, especially about feeling. Lying there, she waited for several moments and since nothing happened she lived an ordinary day. She had not yet freed herself from the desire-power-miracle that had been with her since childhood. The formula had succeeded so many times: to feel the thing without possessing it. All it required was that everything should come to its assistance, leave it light and pure, in a state of fasting in order to receive imagination. As difficult as flying and, without anywhere to support one's feet, to receive something extremely precious in one's arms, a child for example. Even so, only at a certain point in the game did she lose the feeling that she was telling lies — and she was afraid of not being present in all her thoughts. She loved the sea and could feel the bed-sheets covering her. The day advanced and left her behind, alone.

Still lying in bed, she had remained silent, almost without thinking, as sometimes happened. She superficially observed the house filled with sunshine at that hour, the window-panes high and shining as if they were light itself. Otávio had gone out. There was no one in the house. And no one inside her so that she was able to have thoughts as detached from reality as she pleased. If I were to see myself there in the land of the stars, I would remain only for myself. It was not night-time, there were no stars, impossible to see oneself from such a distance. Distracted, she suddenly remembered someone — large teeth with great gaps, eyes without lashes — saying, with every confidence of being original, yet sincere: my life is tremendously nocturnal. Having spoken, this person remained still, quiet, like an ox at night; from time to time the head moved in a gesture without meaning or purpose only to go back to being engulfed in stupidity. Filling the entire world with fear. Ah, yes, the man belonged to her childhood and connected with his memory there was a moist bunch of enormous violets, trembling with luxuriance... Now fully awake, should she so desire, Joana could relax a little, and relive her entire childhood... The brief period spent with her father, the removal to her aunt's house, the teacher instructing her how to live, puberty, surfacing mysteriously, boarding school... her marriage to Otávio... But all this was much briefer, a simple look of surprise could exhaust all these facts.

Yes, she had a touch of fever. If sin existed, she had sinned. Her whole life had been a mistake, she felt useless. Where was the woman with the voice? Where were the women who were merely female? And the continuation of what she had initiated as a child? She had a touch of fever. The outcome of those days when she had wandered to and fro, renouncing and loving the same things a thousand times over. The outcome of those nights, lived in darkness and silence, tiny stars twinkling on high. The girl stretched out on the bed, her eye vigilant in the waning light. The whitish bed swimming in the darkness. Weariness creeping inside her body, lucidity fleeing the dusk. Tattered dreams, awakening visions. Otávio alive in the other room. And suddenly all the weariness of waiting concentrating itself in one nervous, rapid movement of her body, the muffled cry. Then coldness, and sleep.

... One Day...

One day her father's friend arrived from afar and embraced him. When they sat down to dinner, Joana, bewildered and contrite, saw a naked, yellow chicken lying on the table. Her father and the man were drinking wine and the man kept saying from time to time:

— I just can't believe you've got yourself a daughter...

Turning to Joana with a smile, her father said:

— I bought her in the shop on the corner...

Her father was happy, yet continued to look thoughtful as he kneaded his bread into tiny balls. From time to time, he would swallow a mouthful of wine. The man turned to Joana and asked her:

— Did you know that the pig goes grunt-grunt-grunt?

Her father interrupted:

— You're really good at that, Alfredo... The man was called Alfredo.

— Can't you see, her father continued, that the child is no longer at an age to be playing at being a pig...

They both laughed and Joana joined in. Her father gave her another chicken wing and she went on eating without any bread.

— How does it feel to have a little daughter? the man asked, still chewing.

Her father wiped his mouth with his napkin, leaned his head sideways and replied smiling:

— At times it's like holding a warm egg in my hand. Sometimes I feel nothing: a total loss of memory. Now and then, I'm aware of having a child of my own, my very own.

— Missie, missie, bissie, lissie... the man sang, looking towards Joana. What are you going to be when you grow up and become a young lady and all the rest of it?

— As for all the rest of it, she doesn't have the faintest idea, my dear fellow, her father declared, but if she won't get annoyed with me, I'll tell you what she wants to be. She has told me that when she grows up she's going to be a hero...

The man laughed, and laughed, and laughed. Suddenly he stopped, held Joana by the chin and as long as he remained there holding it, she couldn't chew her food:

— Surely you're not going to cry because your daddy has told me your secret, little one?

Then they began to discuss things that must have happened before she was born. At times, they were not even the kind of thing that happens, but just words — also before she was born. A thousand times she would have preferred there to be rain because it would be so much easier to sleep without being frightened of the dark. The two men went to get their hats before going out; then she got up and tugged at her father's jacket:

— Stay a little longer...

The two men looked at each other and for a second she couldn't be certain whether they would stay or go. But when her father and his friend put on a serious expression then laughed together, she knew that they would stay. At least until she was sleepy enough not to lie down without hearing rain, without hearing people, or to be thinking of the rest of the house, dark, empty and silent. They sat down and smoked. The light began to twinkle in her eyes and next day, as soon as she awakened, she would go and visit the neighbour's backyard and take a look at the chickens because today she had eaten roast chicken.

— I couldn't forget her, her father was saying. Not that I spent all my time thinking of her. Now and then a thought, like some memory to muse upon much later. Later it came, but I was unable to give it serious consideration. There was only that slight pang, without any pain, an ah! barely outlined, a moment of reflection and then gone from my mind. She was called... he glanced at Joana — she was called Elza. I even remember saying to her: the name Elza makes me think of an empty sack. She was slender, disdainful — you know what I mean don't you? — intimidating. So quick and harsh in making judgements, so independent and embittered that from our very first meeting I accused her of being shrewish. Would you believe it... She burst out laughing, then became solemn. At that time, I found myself imagining what she would do at night. For I didn't believe it possible that she would sleep. No, she was never one to surrender. And even that sallow complexion — fortunately the child has not inherited it — did not look quite right with a nightdress ... She would spend the night in prayer, her eyes fixed on the dark sky, keeping vigil for someone. My memory was bad, I couldn't even remember why I had called her a shrew. But my memory was not so bad that I could forget her. I could still see her striding along the beach, her expression sullen and remote. The oddest thing of all, Alfredo, is that there couldn't have been any beach. Yet that vision persisted and defied any explanation.

The man was smoking and reclining in his chair. Joana was scoring the red hide on the armchair with her nail.

— I woke up early one morning with a fever. I can almost still feel my tongue inside my mouth, hot, dry, as rough as a rag. You know how I hate suffering, I'd rather sell my soul. Then I found myself thinking about her. Incredible. I was already thirty-two, unless I'm mistaken. I'd met her briefly at the age of twenty. And in a moment of anguish, from among so many friends — even you, for I didn't know where you were — at that moment I thought of her. She was the devil...

His friend laughed:

— Yes, she is the devil...

— You can't imagine what she was like: I never saw anyone with so much hatred for others, but real hatred and contempt as well. And to be so good at the same time... dry but good. Or am I wrong? I am the one who did not like that kind of goodness: almost as if she were making a fool of me. However I got used to it. She didn't need me. Nor I her, to be honest. But we lived together. What I should still like to know, would give anything to know, is what was on her mind all the time. You would find me, as you now see me and know me, the greatest fool compared to her. So you can imagine the impression she made on the few miserable relatives I possess: it was as if I had brought into their rosy and ample bosom — do you remember, Alfredo? — they both laughed — it was as if I had brought in some contagious virus, a heretic, I don't know what... Who can tell? But even I prefer that this little one shouldn't take after her. Or after me, for God's sake — Fortunately, I have the impression that Joana will go her own way...