The Young Bride (8 page)

Yes, it's like him.

But it's not like him to disappear in this way.

The Father remained silent. He was a man who, if only for medical reasons, couldn't allow himself to indulge in anxiety: moreover, he believed firmly in an objective tendency of things to settle themselves. Yet at that moment he felt a slippage of the soul that he had seldom known, something like the opening of a clearing somewhere in the thick forest of his tranquility. He got up from the chair, and for a moment stood waiting for things to resettle themselves inside him by mechanical means, as usually happened in the case of certain discomforts he felt, especially after lunch. All he got from it was an urge to fart, which he controlled. Whereas he did not lose the sensation that he could now focus better, and review the absurd idea that the Son was disappearing not in England but somewhere inside of him, that where there had been the solid mass of a sojourn there was now the void of a silence. It didn't seem illogical, because, even though the style of the times provided for a vague, distant, and restrained role for fathers, it hadn't been that way for him, with that Son, whom he had wanted, against all logic, and who, for reasons whose every nuance he knew,
was the origin of his sole ambition
. So it seemed to him reasonable to register that in the disappearance of that youth something of himself was also disappearing: he could perceive it like a tiny hemorrhage, and mysteriously he knew that, neglected, it would expand without respite.

When was he last seen? he asked.

Eight days ago. He was in Newport, buying a cutter.

What's that?

A small sailboat.

I imagine that we'll see it unloaded in front of the gate one of these days.

It's possible.

Modesto won't be too enthusiastic.

Yet there might be another possibility, Comandini ventured.

What?

He might have taken it out on the ocean.

Him?

Why not? If one hypothesizes a certain wish to disappear . . .

He hates the sea.

Yes, but . . .

A certain wish to disappear?

The desire to become unfindable.

But why in the world?

I have no idea.

I beg your pardon?

I have no idea.

The Father felt a crack opening up somewhere inside him—another one. The idea that Comandini
had no idea about
something struck him without warning, since to that basically modest but marvelously pragmatic man he owed the conviction that every question had an answer, maybe inexact, but real, and sufficient to scatter any possibility of dangerous bewilderment. So he looked up at Comandini, astonished. He saw in his face an unfamiliar expression, and then he heard a creaking in his delicate heart, he smelled a sweetish odor that he recognized, and knew absolutely that at that moment he had begun to die.

Find him, he said.

I'm trying, sir. Besides, it's also possible that we'll see him arrive safe and sound at the door, one of these days, maybe married to an Englishwoman with milky skin and splendid legs, you know, the creator has given them incredible legs, since he couldn't dream up for them anything decent in the way of tits.

The usual Comandini had returned. The Father was grateful.

Do me a favor, never use that word again, he said.

Tits?

No. “Disappear.” I don't like it. It doesn't exist.

I happen to use it often in regard to my savings.

Yes, I understand, but applied to humans it disorients me, humans don't disappear, at worst they die.

That's not the case with your son, I'm sure.

Good.

I feel I can promise you, said Comandini, with a slight hesitation.

The Father smiled at him, with infinite gratitude. Then he was seized by an inexplicable curiosity.

Comandini, do you understand why you always lose at poker? he asked.

I have some hypotheses.

Such as?

The most heartbreaking was suggested by a Turk I saw lose an island in Marrakesh.

An island?

A Greek island, I think, it had been in his family for centuries.

You're telling me you can bet an
island
at the poker table?

It was blackjack, in that case. Anyway, yes. You can even bet an island, if you have the necessary courage and the necessary poetry. He did. We returned to the hotel together. It was almost morning, I had also lost quite a bit, but you wouldn't have said so—we were walking like princes, and without even saying it to each other we felt very handsome, and eternal.
The extraordinary elegance of a man who has lost
, said the Turk.

The Father smiled.

So you lose as a matter of elegance? he asked.

I told you, it's only one hypothesis.

There are others?

Many. You want the most reliable?

I'd like that.

I lose because I play badly.

This time the Father laughed.

Then he decided that he would die slowly, carefully, and not in vain.

 

At seven on the dot the Mother was waiting for her, doing what she usually did at that hour, that is to say refining her own splendor: she confronted the night only in absolute
beauté
—she would never allow death to surprise her in a state that might disappoint whoever happened to discover her ready for the worms.

So the young Bride found her sitting at the mirror, and saw her as she never had before, wearing only a light tunic, her hair loose over her shoulders, falling to her hips. A very young girl, almost a child, was brushing it: the strokes all descended at exactly the same speed, each time burnishing a gilded brown highlight.

The Mother turned slightly, just enough to bestow a look.

Ah, she said, so it's today, I had a suspicion that today was yesterday, it happens to me quite often, not to mention those times when I'm sure it's tomorrow. Sit down, sweetheart, you wanted to talk to me? Ah, her, the child, her name is Dolores, I want to underline the fact that she's been a deaf-mute since birth, the sisters of Good Counsel dug her up for me, God rest their souls, now you'll understand why I have a devotion to them that at times must seem excessive.

She must have had a suspicion that her reasoning might not be completely comprehensible. She conceded a rapid explanation.

Well, never have your hair combed by someone who has the power of speech, that's obvious. Why don't you sit down?

The young Bride didn't sit down, because she hadn't imagined anything like this and for the moment she had no other ideas except to get out of the room and start again from the beginning. She held her book under her arm: it had seemed to her a way of getting straight to the problem. But the Mother didn't even seem to have seen it. It was odd, because in that house a human with a book in hand should have leaped to the eye at least as readily as an old woman who showed up at the evening rosary with a crossbow under her arm. In the young Bride's mind the plan was to enter that room with
Don Quixote
in plain sight, and, in the span of time that the Mother's presumed surprise would give her, utter the following sentence:
It can't hurt anyone, it's wonderful, and I wouldn't want to stay in this house without telling someone that I read it every day. Can I say that to you?

It wasn't a bad plan.

But now the Mother was like an apparition, and to the young Bride it seemed that there was something much more urgent to resolve in that room.

So she sat down. She placed
Don Quixote
on the floor and sat down.

The Mother turned her chair to get a better look at her, and Dolores moved with her, finding a position in which she could continue her patient activity. Not only was she a deaf-mute; she was also nearly invisible. The Mother seemed to have with her the same relationship she might have maintained with a shawl she had thrown over her shoulders.

No, she said, you're not ugly. Something happened. Years ago you were, frankly, too ugly to look at—surely you'll explain to me what went through your head or what you expected to gain by ruining yourself like that, in what is undoubtedly a form of unjustified discourtesy toward the world, a discourtesy to avoid, believe me, so useless, the waste . . . but there is no wealth without waste, it seems, so it's not worth the trouble to . . . In any case what I mean to say is that you're not ugly, not at all, now I imagine it would be a matter of becoming beautiful, in some way, you must have thought about it, I imagine, you won't spend your life in this state, a weak broth, good heavens, you're eighteen years old . . . you're eighteen, right? yes, you're eighteen, well, frankly, at that age one can't be
truly
beautiful, but it's at least obligatory to be
outrageously desirable
, there should be no doubt about that, and now if I ask myself if you're outrageously adorable, or maybe I said desirable, yes, probably I said
desirable
, it's more precise, if I ask myself, then . . . get up a moment, sweetheart, do me a favor, there, thank you, sit down again, it's clear, the answer is no, you're not outrageously desirable, sad to say, but so many things are sad, you certainly must have noticed how many things are saddening if you only . . . but the earth looks different seen from the moon, don't you think? I think so, I've been led to believe it, and so for that reason I don't think it's necessary to . . .
despair
may be a little strong . . .
become melancholy
, there, certainly there's no reason to become melancholy, I wouldn't want to see you melancholy, it's not important, in the end it's just a decision, you see, you should give in to the idea, and stop putting up resistance, I think you should
decide to be beautiful
, that's it, maybe without expecting too much, the Son is arriving, if I were you I'd hurry, he could arrive at any moment, he can't continue to send rams and toothed wheels forever . . . although now it occurs to me that perhaps you came to ask me something, or am I mixing you up with someone else, there are so many people who want things, the number of people who want something from you is oddly . . . you came to ask me something, sweetheart?

Yes.

What?

How to do it.

How to do what?

To be beautiful.

Ah.

She handed Dolores a comb, the way she might have readjusted the shawl that had slid off one shoulder. The child took it and continued her work with that. Probably it had a particular millimetric alignment of teeth that in that specific phase of the operation had proved to be necessary. Maybe even the material it was made of had its importance. Bone.

In general it's a business that takes years, said the Mother.

It seems that I am in some hurry, said the young Bride.

Indisputably.

I can learn quickly.

I don't know. Maybe. Do you not like to put up your hair? said the Mother. Gathered in a bun, at the nape.

The young Bride did it.

What's that? asked the Mother.

I put up my hair.

Exactly.

That's what I was supposed to do.

You don't gather your hair at the nape to gather stupid hair at a stupid nape.

No?

Try again.

The young Bride tried again.

Sweetheart, will you look at me? Look at me. So, the sole purpose of putting up your hair, gathering it at the nape, is to take men's breath away, to remind whoever is around at that moment, with the simple force of that gesture, that whatever they are doing at that moment is tremendously inadequate because, as they remembered the exact instant they saw you twist your hair at the nape of your neck, there is only one thing they truly desire in life: to fuck.

Really?

Of course, they want nothing else.

No, I mean, you really put your hair up to . . .

Oh Lord, you can also do it as if you were tying your shoes, many women do, but we're talking about something else, I think, no? About being beautiful.

Yes.

There.

So the young Bride loosened her hair, was silent for a moment, then gathered it in her hand again and slowly lifted it, twisting it at her nape and pinning it in a soft knot, ending the action by arranging behind her ears the two locks that, on either side of her face, had escaped the operation. Then she rested her hands in her lap.

Well . . .

Did I forget something?

You have a back. Use it.

When?

Always. Start again from the beginning.

The young Bride bent her head forward slightly and brought her hands to her neck to undo the hair that she had just arranged.

Stop. Does your neck itch, by chance?

No.

Strange, one lowers the head to scratch.

And so?

Head tilted back slightly, thank you. Like that, very good. Now toss your head gently two or three times while your hands undo the knot, and that will inevitably lead you to arch your back in what for any male present will signify a kind of announcement, or promise. Stop there. You feel your back?

Yes.

Now bring your hands to your forehead and gather up all the hair, carefully, more carefully than necessary, then throw your head straight back and, running your hands over your head, clasp the hair tight at the nape so that it falls gracefully. The lower down you hold on to it the more your back will arch, and you'll assume the correct position.

Like that?

More.

It hurts.

Nonsense. The farther back the arms go, the farther forward the bosom is thrust and the more the back arches. There, like that, eyes up, stop. Can you see yourself?

With my eyes up . . .

Feel, I mean, can you feel what position you're in?

Yes. I think so.

It's not an ordinary position.

It's uncomfortable.

It's a position in which a woman takes pleasure, according to the rather limited imagination of men.

Ah.

From here on, it's all simpler. Don't be stingy with the rotation of the neck, and draw this hair up, knotting it as you like. It's as if you had opened your robe and now you're closing it, simple. A robe with nothing under it, I mean.