The Complete Stories (10 page)

“Flora, I missed you so, so much.”

“My darling . . .” Flora says sweetly, forgetting her short tight skirt.

Letters to Hermengardo

(“Cartas a Hermengardo”)

FIRST LETTER

My dear Hermengardo:

Today is Sunday and the city is lovely. There is no one on the streets and all the trees exist solitary and sovereign. The worries and desires and hatreds have dwindled, stretched out upon the earth, tired of existing. And at the level of my mouth all I find is the sweet, pure air of calm renunciation.

My soul, cowering all week long, feels sudden desires to sprawl out, to feel supple for a few moments, to be colored afterward with a lassitude as happy as the kind that today softens nature. I need to think for a few minutes so as to possess sweet repose thereafter.

That is why I shall speak of the passions. And I know that you will listen because I have already transmitted to you the impression and desire of Sunday. And because I tell you that I shall speak in the humble robes of a shepherd. And that makes me small and reconciles me to you.

I would like to tell you that having passions does not mean living beautifully, but rather suffering pointlessly. That the soul was made to be guided by reason and that no one can be happy when at the mercy of the instincts. For we are animals yet we are animals disturbed by man. And if they forgive him, he is proud and demanding and never forgives their excesses.

I speak to you of the passions in terms of their quality and their effects.

In terms of their quality because whereas the body is active, the soul is contemplative by nature and, knowing nothing, contemplates so as to conclude. That is its function. And in terms of its effects, because the bow feels empty after bidding farewell to the arrow.

I tell you that there is a joy in renouncing the pain of the passions. Because to desire them is to desire pain and not contentment and those who are noble feel in themselves the necessity to sound out their capacity to burn. And I tell you that what matters is not burning ardently, what matters is repose. What matters is coming to understand oneself and life through reason, which distinguishes us from animals.

And if one day I spoke to you of “noble passions,” I did not call them noble due to their nature, nor their consequences, except out of compassion for their source, the eternal void of men. Because the man disturbed by pride seeks passion as a form of finding humility. He senses (and woe to the blind) that later on humility will come and in humility lies the serenity of the flower that allows itself to sway in the breath of the breeze.

There is that hero, a man without substance who desires, in a fever, to find calm. He should not be applauded, but lamented. There is another hero, who desires only upheaval. And he is a man who could not help but go back. He is a weak man. But if you wish to call him noble, you may. Because there is also a great beauty in animals. And in any case, all that exists is beautiful, error as much as truth. It just so happens that this approach to finding beauty is the approach of one who looks down at earth from heaven and is moved by the frailties of his sons. Men, however, struggle a great deal and desire a great deal. They have no time to seek the whole. They want individual happiness.

And that is why I tell you: passion is not the way.

There exists another way, the only one.

We have reached a certain degree of consciousness of our intelligence and, knowing this to be our mark as men, have discovered that we should give our strength to it so as to attain human perfection. And by this I do not mean to say that we should stop being animals. Never shall we renounce this happiness. What we should seek is for this primitive state to rise a bit and for our pride in being rational to fall a bit until the two beings that exist in us can meet, absorb one another and form a new species in nature.

And that is why I tell you: abandon whatever destroys. Passion destroys because it dissociates. Passion arises in the body and, not comprehending it, we situate it in our souls and become disturbed.

I am explaining all this to you so that you never exalt anything that wars with the contented spirit and anything that kills itself out of love. Merely forgive them. They have yet to comprehend that in life the smile exists and that passion destroys it and transforms it into a trembling rictus, which is no longer human.

If you cannot free yourself from desiring passions, read novels and adventure stories, for that is also why writers exist.

And another thing: pass on what I have said to you to some youth who cannot sleep at night, dreaming up new adventures for Don Quixote. Explain to him that the “ever after” of passion tastes like a stubbed-out cigarette. Ask him, on my behalf, to be a man and not a hero, because nature demands nothing of him except that he be happy and find the peace of the open glade down less painful paths.

Explain this to him and I shall be able to rest this Sunday with the necessary humility.

Now if you ask me: “How do you know these things?” I shall answer in the words of Kipling, so often quoted by my Public Law professor: “But that’s another story . . .”

Thank you for listening to me,

Idalina.

SECOND LETTER

My dear Hermengardo,

In truth I tell you: happily you exist. For me the existence of a creature on Earth is enough to satisfy my desire for glory, which is nothing but a profound desire for closeness. Because I was mistaken when long ago I imagined as real my former yearning to “save humanity,” “
malgré
,” itself. Now all I desire is another person, besides myself, to whom I can prove myself . . . And by returning to Idalina I also understood how beautiful and how impossible that other dream is, that of trying to save oneself. And if it is so impossible, then why lead me to this new citadel that would now be a poor disturbed woman? I don’t know. Perhaps because one must save something. Perhaps through the belated consciousness that we are the sole presence that will not leave us until death. And that is why we love and seek ourselves. And why, so long as we exist, the world shall exist and humanity shall exist. This is how, in the end, we are connected to them.

And everything I am saying is just an arbitrary preamble to justify my fondness for giving you so much advice. Because giving advice is once more to speak about oneself. And here I am . . . Yet, in the end, I can speak with a peaceful conscience. I know of nothing that grants a man as many rights as the fact that he is living.

This preamble also serves as an apology. It is because I realize, even through the sweetest words that the miracle of your breathing inspires in me, my destiny is to throw stones. Never get angry with me for that. Some are born to cast stones. And after all, (here is where my task begins) why would it be wrong to cast stones, unless because they will hit things that belong to you or to those who know how to laugh and adore and eat?

Once this point has been clarified and you allow me to throw stones, I shall speak to you of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony.

Have a seat. Stretch out your legs. Close your eyes and ears. I shall say nothing for five minutes so you can think about Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony. See, and this will be more perfect still, if you manage not to think in words, but rather create a state of feeling. See if you can halt the whole whirlwind and clear a space for the Fifth Symphony. It is so beautiful.

Only thus will you have it, through silence. Understand! If I perform it for you, it will fade away, note by note. As soon as the first one is sounded, it will no longer exist. And after the second, the harmony will no longer echo. And the beginning will be the prelude to the end, as in all things. If I perform it you will hear music and that alone. Whereas there is a way to keep it paused and eternal, each note like a statue inside you.

Do not perform it, that is what you must do. Do not listen to it and you shall possess it. Do not love and you shall have love inside you. Do not smoke your cigarette and you shall have a lit cigarette inside you. Do not listen to Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony and it will never end for you.

Thus I redeem myself from casting stones, so endlessly . . . Thus I taught you not to kill. Erect within yourself the monument to Unsatisfied Desire. And that way things will never die, before you yourself die. Because I tell you, sadder still than casting stones is dragging corpses.

And if you cannot follow my advice, because life is always more eager than all else, if you cannot follow my advice and all the plans we made to better ourselves then go suck on some mints. They are so refreshing.

Your

Idalina

Gertrudes Asks for Advice

(“Gertrudes pede um conselho”)

She sat down in a way that made her own weight “iron” her wrinkled skirt. She smoothed her hair, her blouse. Now, all she could do was wait.

Outside, everything was just swell. She could see the roofs of the houses, red flowers in a window, the yellow sun streaming over everything. There was no better time than two in the afternoon.

She didn’t want to wait because she’d get scared. And if she was she wouldn’t make the impression she wanted on the doctor. Don’t think about the discussion, don’t think. Quickly make up a story, count to a thousand, think about nice things. The worst was that all she could remember was the letter she’d sent. “Dear Madame, I am seventeen years old and would like . . .” Idiotic, absolutely idiotic. “I’m tired of pacing back and forth. Sometimes I can’t sleep, partly because I share a room with my sisters and they toss and turn too much. But the real reason I can’t sleep is because I stay up thinking about things. I once decided to commit suicide, but I don’t want to anymore. Can you help me? Gertrudes.”

And the other letters? “I don’t like anything, I am like the poets . . .” Oh, don’t think about it. How embarrassing! Until the doctor finally wrote her, summoning her to the office. But what was she going to say, after all? Everything was so vague. And the doctor would laugh . . . No, no, the doctor, who took care of abandoned minors, writing advice columns in magazines, had to understand, even without her saying anything.

Today something was going to happen! Don’t think 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7 . . . It was no use. Once upon a time there was a blind boy who . . . Why blind? No, he wasn’t blind. His vision was quite good in fact. Now she finally understood why God, who could do anything, created crippled, blind, wretched people. Just to pass the time. While waiting? No, God never has to wait. So what exactly does he do? He’s there, even if you still believed in Him (I didn’t believe in God, I’d shower right before lunch, wouldn’t wear my high school uniform and had taken up smoking), even if you still believed in ghosts, there couldn’t be anything appealing about eternity. If I were God I’d have already forgotten how the world began. So long ago and all those centuries still to come . . . Eternity has no beginning, no end. She felt a little dizzy when she tried to imagine it, and God, always everywhere, invisible, with no defined form. She laughed, remembering how she’d eagerly swallow the tales they used to tell her. She had become quite free . . . But that didn’t mean she was happy. And that was exactly what the doctor was going to explain.

In fact, lately, Tuda hadn’t been feeling well at all. Sometimes she felt a nameless anxiety, sometimes an excessive and sudden calm. She often felt like crying, which generally was no more than an urge, as though the crisis spent itself in the desire. Some days, filled with boredom, peevish and sad. Other days, languid like a cat, becoming intoxicated by the slightest occurrences. A leaf falling, a child’s cry, and she’d think: another moment and I won’t be able to bear such happiness. And she really couldn’t bear it, though she didn’t exactly know what that happiness consisted of. She would collapse into muffled sobs, unburdened, with the foggy impression that she was surrendering, who knows how or to whom.

After the tears, along with swollen eyes, came a state of gentle convalescence, of acquiescence to everything. She surprised everyone with her sweetness and transparency and, moreover, mustered a bird-like lightness. She’d hand out alms to all the poor, with the grace of someone tossing flowers.

At other times, she filled herself with strength. Her gaze became hard as steel, prickly as thorns. She felt that she “could.” She’d been made to “liberate.”

“Liberate” was an immense word, full of mysteries and pain. Since she’d been agreeable for days, when was she destined for that other role? Which other? Everything was mixed up and could only really be expressed by the word “liberty” and by her heavy and determined tread, in the stoic expression she adopted. At night she wouldn’t fall asleep until the distant roosters started to crow. She wasn’t thinking, not exactly. She daydreamed. She imagined a future in which, daring and cool, she would lead a multitude of men and women, full of faith, almost to the point of worshipping her. Later, toward the middle of the night, she would slip into a state of semi-consciousness, in which everything was good, the multitude already led, no more school, her very own room, loads of men in love with her. She’d wake up bitter, noting with repressed joy how she wasn’t interested in the cake her sisters were devouring like animals, with an irritating unconcern.

She was then living her days of glory. And they reached their peak with some thought that exalted her and plunged her into ardent mysticism: “Join a convent! Save the poor, be a nurse!” She could already imagine herself donning the black habit, her face pale, her eyes pious and humble. Her hands, those implacably flushed and broad hands, emerging, white and delicate, from long sleeves. Or else, wearing that stark white cap, with sunken hollows under her eyes from sleepless nights. Handing the doctor, silently and rapidly, the operating tools. He would look at her with admiration, real friendliness, and who knows? Love even.

But greatness was impossible in surroundings such as hers. They’d interrupt her with the most banal observations: “Have you showered yet, Tuda?” Or else, the gaze of everyone at home. A simple look, distracted, completely alien to the noble fire that burned inside her. Who could go on, she thought in dejection, amid such vulgarity?

And besides this, why didn’t “things happen”? Tragedies, beautiful tragedies . . .

Until she discovered the doctor. And before meeting her, she already belonged to her. At night she carried on long imaginary conversations with this stranger. During the day, she’d write her letters. Until she was summoned: they’d finally seen that she was somebody, somebody extraordinary, somebody misunderstood!

Up until the day of the appointment, Tuda was beside herself. She dwelt in an atmosphere of fever and anxiety. An adventure. Got it? An adventure.

It wouldn’t be long before she went into the office. This is how it’ll go: she’s tall, with short hair, piercing eyes, a big chest. Kind of chubby. But at the same time resembling Diana, the Huntress, of the waiting room.

She smiles. I remain solemn.

“Good afternoon.”

“Good afternoon, my child” (wouldn’t this be better: Good afternoon, sister? No, people don’t say that).

“I came here out of an excess of audacity, trusting in your goodness and understanding, ma’am. I’m seventeen years old and I think I’m ready to start living.”

She doubted she’d have the nerve. And anyway what did the doctor, after all, even have in common with her? But, no. Something would happen. She’d offer her a job, for example. She might send her on a voyage to collect data on . . . on infant mortality, let’s say, or on farmworkers’ wages. Or she might say:

“Gertrudes, you shall play a much greater role in life. You shall . . .”

What? What is greatness after all? Everything comes to an end . . . I don’t know, the doctor will tell me.

Suddenly . . . The young fellow scratched his ear and said, with that old air people insist on lending new and exciting facts:

“You can go in . . .”

Tuda crossed the room, without breathing. And found herself facing the doctor.

She was seated at her desk, surrounded by books and papers. A stranger, serious, with a life of her own, which Tuda knew nothing about.

She pretended to tidy up her desk.

“Well then?” she said afterward. “A girl named Gertrudes . . .” She laughed. “And what brings you to me, looking for a job?” she began, with the tact that had earned her position as a magazine advice columnist.

Diminutive, black hair curled into two coils at the nape. Her lipstick applied a little beyond her lip line, in an attempt at sensuality. Her face calm, her hands fidgety. Tuda wanted to flee.

She’d left home many years before.

The doctor went on and on, her voice slightly hoarse, her gaze unfocused. About all sorts of subjects. The latest movies, young women today, their lack of guidance, bad reading choices, who knows, lots of things. Tuda talked too. Her heart had stopped racing and the room, the doctor gradually took on a more comprehensible aspect. Tuda told a few secrets, of no importance. Her mother, for example, didn’t like her going out at night, claiming she’d catch a chill. She needed to have throat surgery and constantly had a cold. But her father always said every cloud had a silver lining and that tonsils were part of the body’s defenses. And also, whatever nature created had its purpose.

The doctor toyed with her pen.

“All right, now I know you more or less. In your letter you mentioned a nickname? Tudes, Tuda . . .”

Tuda blushed. So the stranger brought up the letters. She couldn’t hear so well because she felt dizzy and her heart decided to beat right in her ears. “A difficult age . . . they all are . . . when you least expect . . .”

“This worrying, everything you’re feeling is more or less normal, it’ll pass. You’re smart and you’ll understand what I’m going to explain. Puberty brings about certain disruptions and . . .”

No, doctor, how humiliating. She was already too old for these things, what she felt was more beautiful and even . . .

“This will pass. You don’t need to work or do anything extraordinary. If you like”—she was going to use her old trick and smiled—“if you like, get yourself a boyfriend. And then . . .”

She was just like Amélia, like Lídia, like everyone else, like everyone else!

The doctor was still talking. Tuda remained silent, obstinately silent. A cloud blotted out the sun and the office suddenly turned gloomy and humid. A second later, the dust motes started to float and glimmer again.

The therapist became slightly impatient. She was tired. She’d been working so hard . . .

“All right? Anything else? Speak up, don’t be afraid to speak up . . .”

Tuda thought confusedly: I came to ask what to do with myself. But she didn’t know how to sum up her condition in that question. Furthermore, she was worried about doing something eccentric and still wasn’t used to herself.

The doctor had tilted her head to one side and was doodling little symmetrical lines on a piece of paper. Then she surrounded the lines with a slightly crooked circle. As always, she couldn’t quite maintain the same approach for long. She was flagging and letting herself be invaded by her own thoughts. She realized it, got irritated and took out her irritation on Tuda: “So many people dying, so many ‘homeless children,’ so many unsolvable problems (her problems) and here was this little girl, with a family, a nice bourgeois life, inflating her own importance.” She vaguely noted that this contradicted her individualist theory: “Each person is a world, each person possesses his or her own key and other people’s keys don’t work; you can only look at someone else’s world for amusement, for some personal gain, for some other surface feeling floating by that isn’t the vital one; just knowing that others feel as you do is a consolation, but not a solution.” Precisely because she noted that she was contradicting herself and because a colleague’s statement about female inconsistency sprang to mind and because she thought it unfair, she grew even more exasperated, wanting, angry at herself, as if to punish herself, to plunge deeper into the contradiction. A minute longer and she’d say to the girl: why don’t you visit the cemetery? Vaguely, however, she noticed Tuda’s dirty nails and reflected: she’s still in too much turmoil to learn any lessons from the cemetery. And furthermore, she remembered her own days of dirty nails and imagined how she would have scoffed at someone who spoke to her back then about the cemetery as though about some reality.

All of a sudden, Tuda got the feeling that the doctor didn’t like her. And, like that, there with that woman who had nothing to do with all these intimate matters, in that room she’d never seen and that was suddenly “a place,” she thought she was dreaming. Why was she there? she asked herself startled. Everything about her mother, home, that last lunch, so peaceful, was losing its reality, and not only her confession but the inexplicable motive that brought her to the doctor seemed like a lie, a monstrous lie, that she’d gratuitously invented, just for fun . . . The proof is that no one ever made use of her, as of a thing that exists. They’d say: “Tuda’s dress, Tuda’s classes, Tuda’s tonsils . . .”, but they’d never say: “Tuda’s unhappiness . . .” She’d gone so far so fast with this lie! Now she was lost, she couldn’t turn back! She’d stolen some candy and didn’t want to eat it . . . But the doctor would make her chew it, swallow it, as a punishment . . . Ah, to slip away from that office and be alone again, without the doctor’s useless and humiliating understanding.

“Look, Tuda, what I’d really like to tell you is that one day you’ll have whatever it is you’re now so confusedly seeking. That kind of calm that comes from knowing oneself and others. But you can’t rush the arrival of that state of mind. There are things you only learn when no one teaches them. And that’s how it is with life. There’s even more beauty in discovering it for yourself, in spite of the suffering.” The doctor felt a sudden weariness, had the impression that wrinkle #3, from her nose to her lips, had deepened. That girl was doing her harm and she wanted to be alone again. “Look, I’m sure you’ll have plenty of happiness to come. Sensitive people are both unhappier and happier than others. But give it some time!” How easily banal she was, she thought without bitterness. “Go on living . . .”

She smiled. And suddenly Tuda felt that face digging deep into her soul. It wasn’t coming from her mouth, nor from her eyes, that gaze . . . that divine gaze. It was like a terribly friendly shadow, hovering over the doctor. And, just then, Tuda discovered that she hadn’t lied, oh, no! A joy, an urge to cry. Oh, to kneel before the doctor, bury her face in her lap, to shout: this is all I’ve got, this! Just tears!

The doctor was no longer smiling. She was thinking. Looking at her, there, in profile, Tuda no longer understood her. A stranger, once again. She quickly sought the other one, the divine one: