Near to the Wild Heart (3 page)

— And then? the man rejoined.

— Then... nothing. She died as soon as possible.

Later the man said:

— Look, your daughter is almost asleep... The kindest thing would be to put her to bed.

But she was not sleeping. She only had to half-close her eyes, and let her head droop to one side, and it was almost as good as if it were raining, with everything gently merging. So that when she finally got into bed and pulled the sheet over her she would be more accustomed to sleep, wouldn't feel the darkness weighing on her bosom. Especially now that she was frightened of Elza. But one cannot be frightened of one's own mother. A mother was like a father. As her father carried her along the passageway to the bedroom, she leaned her head against him and caught the heavy odour that came from his arms. She said without speaking: no, no, no... In order to cheer herself up she thought: tomorrow, first thing tomorrow I'm going to see the live chickens.

The last rays of sunlight flickered on the green branches outside. The pigeons pecked at the loose earth. From time to time, the schoolroom was invaded by the breeze and the silence coming from the playground. Then everything became lighter, the teacher's voice fluttered like a white flag.

— And he and his loved ones lived happily ever after — Pause — the trees stirred in the yard, it was a summer's day. — Write a summary of this story for our next lesson. Still absorbed in the story, the children slowly dispersed, their eyes vacant, their mouths wearing a smile of satisfaction.

— What do you get when you're happy? her voice was as clear and sharp as an arrow. The teacher looked at Joana.

— Can you repeat the question... ?

Silence. The teacher smiled, arranging her books.

— Ask me once more, Joana, I didn't hear you the first time.

— I wanted to know: when you're happy what happens? What comes afterwards? — the girl repeated stubbornly.

The woman looked at her in surprise.

— What an idea! I don't know what you're talking about, what an idea! Ask me the same question with different words...

— To be happy is to get what?

The teacher turned crimson — you could never tell why she turned crimson. She marked the register and dismissed the class for recreation.

The porter came to summon the girl to the office. The teacher was waiting there:

— Sit down... Have you been playing?

— Just a little...

— What do you want to be when you grow up?

— I don't know.

— Well, listen, I've also had an idea — she reddened.

— Take a piece of paper, write down the question you asked me today and hold on to it. When you grow up, read it again. — She looked at her. — Who knows? Perhaps one day, you yourself will be able to reply somehow... — She lost her serious expression, turned crimson — Or perhaps this isn't important and, at least, you will enjoy yourself with...

— No.

— No what? — the teacher asked in surprise.

— I don't like enjoying myself, Joana said proudly. The teacher had turned crimson again:

— Very well, off you go and play.

As Joana made a dash for the door, the teacher called her back, by now flushed to the neck, her eyes lowered, rummaging through the papers on her desk:

— Don't you find it strange... odd that I should ask you to write down a question and hold on to it?

— No, she replied.

And returned to the playground.

Joana Takes a Stroll

I find it so relaxing, Joana explained to Otávio.

Just as the space surrounded by four walls has a specific utility, created not so much by its being space, as by the fact that it is surrounded by walls. Otávio transformed her into something that was not her but Otávio himself and which Joana received out of pity for both of them because both were incapable of freeing themselves through love. Also because she submissively accepted her own fear of suffering, her inability to conduct herself beyond the frontier of revolt. Besides: how was she to tie herself to a man without permitting him to imprison her? How was she to prevent him from enclosing her body and soul within his four walls? And was there some means of acquiring things without those things possessing her?

The evening was naked and transparent, without beginning or end. Birds, agile and black, darted sharply through the pure air, they flew so swiftly that no human eye could accompany their flight. In the far distance, the mountain hovered, massive and dense. There were two ways of looking at it: first, by imagining that it was remote and huge; second by imagining that it was small and within reach. But in any event, a stupid mountain, brown and solid. How she loathed nature at times. Without knowing why, it struck her that this last reflection, associated with the mountain, concluded something, and banging on the table with the palm of her hand, she thought: That's it! That grey and greenish thing extended inside Joana like a recumbent body, thin and harsh, right inside her, completely dry, like a smile without saliva, like strained eyes in need of sleep, that thing affirmed itself before the impassive mountain. What she could not grasp with her hand was now glorious, elevated and free, and it was hopeless to try and summarize it: pure air, a summer's evening. For there was certainly more than this. A hollow victory over the lush trees, the aimless existence of all things. Oh, God. This, yes, this: were God to exist, surely He would abandon that world immediately, too clean by far, like a house on a Saturday, quiet, not a speck of dust anywhere, smelling of soap. Joana smiled. Why did a house that had been polished and cleaned leave her feeling lost as if she were in a monastery, disconsolate, wandering through corridors? And there were many other things she observed. If she applied ice to her liver, she was pervaded by remote, sharp sensations, by luminous, fleeting ideas, and if she were then to speak, she would say, sublime, with outstretched hands, perhaps with her eyes closed:

— Then I find it so relaxing, she repeated. She felt like a withered branch, stuck in mid-air. Brittle, covered with peeling bark. Perhaps she might be thirsty, but there was no water nearby. And above all, the suffocating certainty that if a man were to embrace her at that moment she would not feel a gentle sweetness in her nerves, but lemon-juice causing her to smart, her body like wood near the fire, warped, split, desiccated. She could not reassure herself by saying: this is just an interval, life will come afterwards like a tidal wave of blood, washing me, dampening the scorched wood. She could not deceive herself because she knew that she was also living and that those moments were the climax of something awkward, of a painful experience for which she should be grateful: almost as if she were experiencing time outside herself, quietly withdrawing.

— I've noticed that you like walking, Otávio remarked, gathering a twig. — Besides, you liked going for a stroll even before we married.

— Yes, that's quite true, she replied.

She could offer him any thought and so create a new relationship between them. This is what pleased her most in her dealings with others. She was under no obligation to follow the past, and with a word she could invent a way of life. If she were to say: I'm three months pregnant, that's it! something would exist between them. Even though Otávio was not particularly stimulating. With him the most likely possibility was to link oneself to what had already taken place. Even so, beneath that gaze of his imploring 'save me, save me', she opened her hand from time to time and allowed a little bird to take sudden flight. But sometimes, perhaps because of the nature of what she said, no bridge was created between them. On the contrary, a gap opened up. 'Otávio — she suddenly said to him — has it ever occurred to you that a dot, a single dot without dimensions is the maximum of solitude? A dot cannot even rely on itself, from one moment to the next, it stands by itself.' As if she had thrown a red-hot coal at her husband, the phrase leaped from one side to the other, slipped from her hands until he rid himself of her with another phrase, cold as ashes, ashes to cover that interval: It's raining, I'm hungry, it's a fine day. Perhaps because she did not know how to play. But she loved him, for that way he had of gathering twigs.

She inhaled the clear, tepid air of evening, and that thing inside her, pleading for water, remained tense and rigid like someone waiting with eyes blindfolded for the shot to ring out.

Night came, and she continued to breathe with the same sterile rhythm. But as dawn gently lit up the bedroom, things emerged fresh from the shadows, she felt the new morning insinuating itself between the sheets and opened her eyes. She sat on the bed. Inside her it was as if there were no death, as if love could dissipate it, as if eternity meant renewal.

... The Aunt...

The journey took ages and from the distant woods came the pungent smell of damp scrub.

It was early morning and Joana had barely had time to wash her face. The housemaid at her side amused herself by reading out the advertisements on the tram. Joana was reclining with her right temple resting on the back of the seat and she permitted herself to be lulled by the consoling sound of the wheels, drowsily transmitted by the wood. The ground sped away beneath her lowered eyes, rapid, grey, lined with swift and fleeting stripes. Were she to open her eyes she would see each stone, she would dispel the mystery. But she half closed them and had the impression that the tram was going faster and that the fresh, salty, dawn breeze was growing stronger.

There was something odd about the cake she had eaten with her coffee, it was dark — tasted of wine and cockroaches — cake which they had persuaded her to eat with so much affection and pity that she hadn't had the heart to refuse. It now weighed heavily on her stomach and brought a sadness to her body which attached itself to that other sadness -
.
something immovable behind the curtain — with which she had slept and awoken.

— Tramping over this sand is hard work, the housemaid complained.

She crossed the stretch of sand which led to her aunt's house, heralding the beach. Beneath the grains of sand, there sprouted thin, dark grasses which wriggled vigorously to the smooth, white surface. A strong wind blew in from the invisible sea, bringing salt, sand, the languid sound of the waters, it entangled their skirts between their legs, furiously licking the girl's skin and that of the woman accompanying her.

— This is awful, the maid muttered between clenched teeth.

An even stronger gust lifted her skirt to her face, exposing her dark, muscular thighs. The coconut-palms writhed in desperation and the light, at once overcast and fierce, reflected itself on the beach and in the sky, without any trace of the sun so far. Dear God, what had happened to things? Everything was calling out: no! no!

Her aunt's house was a refuge where neither wind nor light penetrated. The woman sat down with a sigh in the sombre waiting-room, where, amidst the heavy, dark furniture, the smiling portraits of men in frames cast a gentle glow. Joana remained standing, scarcely inhaling that lukewarm odour which seemed sweet and musty after the sharp tang of the sea. The odour of mildew and tea sweetened with sugar.

The door leading into the house finally opened and her aunt, dressed in a house-coat with a bold floral pattern, rushed to embrace her. Before she could move in self-defence, Joana found herself being buried between those two mounds of soft, warm flesh which quivered with every sob. Trapped between those breasts and plunged into darkness, she could hear her aunt weeping as if through a pillow:

— My poor little orphan!

She could feel her face being drawn back from her aunt's bosom by those plump hands and for a second she was carefully scrutinized. Her aunt passed from one gesture to another without any transition, in quick abrupt stages. A fresh outburst of weeping exploded in her body and Joana received anguished kisses on her eyes, her mouth, her neck. Her aunt's tongue and mouth were soft and warm like those of a dog. Joana closed her eyes for an instant, swallowed the nausea and the dark cake which were heaving inside her stomach, causing her to shudder from head to foot. Her aunt pulled out a large, crumpled handkerchief and blew her nose. The housemaid remained seated, looking at the portraits, her legs sprawled out, her mouth wide open. The cleavage between the aunt's breasts was deep. She could have put her hand in there as if she were dipping into a bag and pulling out some surprise, an animal, a casket, whatever. Her breasts expanded with every sob, bulged out, and from the kitchen came the smell of beans cooked with garlic. Somewhere in the house, someone must be drinking great mouthfuls of olive oil. Those breasts could bury someone!

— Let me go! — Joana screamed, stamping her foot on the ground, her eyes dilated, her body trembling.

Her aunt leaned against the piano, stunned. The housemaid said: Leave her alone, she's tired. Joana was gasping for breath, her face a deathly white. She passed her darkened eyes over the room, felt she was being pursued. The walls were solid, she was trapped, trapped! A man in one of the portraits was watching her from behind his moustache and her aunt's breasts were in danger of spilling over her, melted into fat. She pushed the heavy door and fled.

A gust of wind and sand entered the hall, lifted the curtains, brought a breath of air. Through the open door, her handkerchief suppressing her sobs and her dismay — such a terrible disappointment — the aunt caught a fleeting glimpse of her niece's thin, bare legs scampering and scurrying between heaven and earth, until they disappeared in the direction of the beach.

Using the back of her hands, Joana wiped her face which was wet with kisses and tears. She breathed more deeply, still felt the insipid taste of that warm saliva, the cloying fragrance that came from her aunt's bosom. Unable to control her feelings any longer, anger and revulsion surfaced in violent waves and, leaning over a cavity in the rocks, she threw up, her eyes shut and tight, her body painful and vindictive.

The wind was now licking her with force. Pale and fragile, breathing gently, she could feel it salty and playful, pervading and penetrating her entire body, reviving her. She half opened her eyes. Down there below, the sea shone in waves of copper, stretched out, deep, opaque, serene. It came dense and rebellious, rising in spirals. Then it extended itself ... spreading itself over the peaceful sands like a living body. The sea — she said in a whisper, her voice hoarse.