The Girl in the Photograph (27 page)

Slowly she rolled her head back and forth on the pillow and crossed her clenched hands
over her breasts.

“I have to go. My father. It doesn’t matter because my father.”

With controlled gestures he undressed. He folded his clothes, methodically piling
them up piece by piece, until he was naked. Then he inhaled and exhaled, expanding
his chest, contracting his abdomen. Gravely he walked to the drawer of the larger
table covered with an old Spanish shawl. From it he took a tattered magazine, with
the picture of an old movie actress on the cover patched together with pieces of adhesive
tape. He lay down beside Ana Clara without touching her, his entire body trembling.
From beneath a red satin cushion embellished with tea-colored lace he brought out
a pair of glasses and put them on. His hoarse voice stumbled over the words.

“‘
When on that dismal afternoon at Waterloo, a desperate Napoleon ordered all batteries
of his near-defeated troops to pour out their ammunition in a concentrated volley,
a deluge broke from the floodgates of the firmament, engulfing the battlefield. At
that moment, hearing the artillery drumming halfburied in the mud and the celestial
thunder rolling amid the drenching torrents of rain, the phenomenal man whose Caesarean
glory glimmered in the final twilight of the Hundred Days must have exclaimed with
his eyes turned to the heavens, We concede!
’”

He paused. He breathed with effort, wheezing through dilated nostrils, his teeth whitened
with saliva. He turned over on his stomach and straightened out the magazine which
was open on the pillow. His stringy muscles continued rigid, left foot tensing spasmodically
in a cramp. He bit the cushion and raised his head, pulling his lips back into a grimace
as he read under his breath:

“‘
Other famous conquerors, upon releasing the final expirations from their heroic breasts,
perhaps have heard the cosmic elements of Nature resound with fury in the awesome
solidarity of thunderbolt, lightning-streak and flood. Great leaders do not succumb
without tempest, tumult and storm, in order that their fearful glory might further
magnify the terrifying splendor of the loyal and choleric heavens. No one will deny
that Rudolph Valentino was the greatest conqueror of our remarkable times
.’”

Moaning, he pulled himself so close to the sleeping Ana Clara that he could almost
press his foaming mouth against her cheek. He relished the scent of her perfume, teeth
grinding between clenched jaws. Placing the open magazine on her belly, he drove his
elbows into the mattress. With painful breath he adjusted his foggy glasses and lowered
his haggard eyes to the text:

“‘
Of course he did not make Andromache a widow, nor accept the duel with Achilles. He
did not conquer Gaul, destroy Carthage, nor take Constantinople. He did not fight
in the battles of the Crusades nor was he at Trafalgar. He did not cross the Berezina
River nor pierce Lopez of Paraguay with his lance. However, he did more, infinitely
more
…’” he croaked ripping off his glasses. The bedspread wrinkled under his twitching
hands, as his sweat-soaked body jerked in contortions. His voice was a thick wheeze.

“‘
He conquered the hearts of all the women who saw him on the screen, and they barely
saw him … yet having only glimpsed him, they experienced the swoon of Platonic love
… which, according to the physiologists … is the most dreadful and subtle form of
passion … that finds no end that finds no end in infinite insatiability!’ “

He sank into the pillow, arms open, and grew still. The pasty sound from the wound-down
Victrola gradually faded.

Chapter 9

Ana Clara making love. Lião making speeches. Mama making progress with her analyst.
The nuns making dessert, I can smell from here the warm aroma of pumpkin cooking.
I make philosophy. To be or to exist. No, it’s not
to be or not to be
, that’s already been thought of, let us not confuse it with the philosophy I just
invented. Absolutely original. If I
exist
, then I am not
being
(something or somewhere) because for me to exist it is necessary that I
not be
something or somewhere. Now where can I do that? A very good question: Where can
I exist without being something or somewhere? Only inside myself, of course. In order
for me to exist entire (essential and attributes) it is necessary that I not be anywhere
except inside myself. I do not disintegrate in Nature because Nature takes me and
gives me back wholly; there is not competition but identification of elements. Only
that. When I am in the city, I disintegrate because in the city I don’t
exist
, I
am
(somewhere); I compete and within the rules of the game (there are thousands of rules)
I must compete well; consequently I have to
be
something—competent—in order to compete as well as possible. Thus to compete as well
as possible I end up sacrificing existence, mine or somebody else’s, it all comes
to the same thing. And if I sacrifice existence for mere being, I’ll end up disintegrating
(essential and attributes) until I’m totally pulverized. Vanity of vanities, all is
vanity. We come to a Biblical conclusion but it answers all the questions of this
confused and disintegrating world. The madmen ruling over the living and the dead.
Those few who manage to hang onto the reins of madness will prevail, who will they
be? Polluted lungs and minds. An important role is reserved for the psychiatrists.
And for the prophets, I have even more faith in them. I think I’d be more useful if
I’d studied medicine, what good will laws do us in the future if they’re already in
the state we know so well? A marvelous psychiatrist. The unfortunate thing is that
when I read a book about mental illnesses, I discover symptoms of almost every one
of them in myself; I’d be a psychiatrist too well acquainted with madness. Saved through
love. Oh Lord. Why doesn’t M.N. call if only just to say … I’m not pretty, an undisputable
point. But isn’t my IQ much higher than normal? And I do have a certain charm. Somewhat
obscure, it’s true, but “
if you search you shall discover the gold buried in the earth
.”
L’or caché
.

I close my tract, it’s already very tractable. I wish the exams would start, oh, this
strike. There was a time (a good while back, right?) when we used to study together,
Lião and I. Ana Clara wasn’t yet so ambulatory-delirious, poor thing. She used to
study one or two problems with us, muse over her plans, and then try on my clothes,
but she didn’t bother us much. It was the period of research, Lião wasn’t committed
to the revolution yet, she was studying normally. Statistics. Formulas. She even wrote
a paper about what causes drivers to hang trinkets from the rearview mirrors of their
cars. There were two clear-cut groups: those who did hang up knickknacks and those
who didn’t. The latter revealing an obvious intellectual superiority over the others,
in the Lianine view. For me, a simple matter of good taste, you hear, M.N.? Would
Plato have hung his little boy’s bootie on the mirror of his Porsche if he had driven
a Porsche? Naturally it was his wife or daughter who hung that miniature hat up. A
little Mexican sombrero,
ay, yay, yay yay!
Didn’t Mieux hang up a little erotic baby in Mama’s Corcel? If Lião had seen the
sombrero hanging in M.N.’s car she’d have turned her thumb down,
kaput
. And Lião knows. She knows everything, even the number of prostitutes who derive
pleasure from their work and those who don’t, she’s researched that as well. She wandered
about the red-light zone for an entire month, bag and briefcase in hand, asking the
most original questions. When she started working with doped adolescents she joined
her famous group. If she’d stayed on a little longer she’d have been wearing a white
apron by now, working in her child-psychiatry clinic, they all start out very humbly
and pretty soon they’re booked solid until November. The adults have already dived
into that whirlpool up to their ears, now it’s the children’s turn. One less psychologist,
which is la-men-ta-ble. Her thesis would have been: The Importance of Black Embroidery
Silk in the Pre-natal Individual.

Consolatrix Afflictorum
. I go into my bathroom. If I close my eyes I can imagine myself entering a forest
of eucalyptus trees, Sebastiana was very free with the air scent. But the real perfume
is different. I sit on the edge of the bathtub and join my thumb and forefinger together
forming a ring so that the water from the faucet runs through the middle. With his
thumb and index finger, two extremely important digits, M.N. will undo my brassiere,
which I never wear since I simply don’t need one, but which is indispensable at this
point. Ana Clara told that the German, ripped off her blouse, the fabulous German,
the first man, first love, first everything. M.N.’s breathing will alter: It will
be as if he had been climbing up a rather long staircase, one of those winding ones,
let’s say. I interrupt him because I’m terribly thirsty, I want a drink of water.
Which is nothing new; I’ve been that way ever since I was a child: Before leaving
the house Mama, the nurse, everyone would ask me if I needed to make pee-pee, etc.
No, I didn’t. We’d get in the car, the farm was about fifteen minutes out of town,
and before long I’d start squirming. Or we’d be coming out the door of the church.
At the exact moment the procession was starting, with the line of angels right in
front, I’d run back because I was thirsty or needing to go to the bathroom, which
was more complicated because of the wings tied onto my shoulders underneath the satin
gown. To this day I don’t know why getting my panties down involved dislocating my
wings. “A little whiskey in the water?” he asks, so far he has only taken off his
coat and loosened his tie a bit, very good. In spite of the slight heat, my blood
pressure must be down in the basement, a drink is indispensable. I ask emphatically
for a strong one, I don’t normally drink but at times like these only a drink loosens
one up. I drain the glass, glug-glug-glug. The dizziness that begins in the back of
my neck ends up in my mouth, in the midst of a slow juicy kiss. In slow motion—everything
unhurried—he begins to take off his clothes with the air of someone who wants
only
to move more freely, “It’s a bit hot, isn’t it?” In spite of the unhurriedness the
moment has come for the undershorts, Oh Lord. The horror I have of men’s undershorts,
beginning with the word. No matter how modern and fancy they are. I become completely
constrained when I see an actor in his undershorts in the movies. “I can’t imagine
why he has to wear those white undershorts during the whole movie,” I complained to
Lião, the camera would whirl around pretending
to focus on something else, and then go straight back to the undershorts, with their
telltale bulges. “I want to see his face, too,” I complained. Over a sandwich, Lião
gave her own explanation: “I can’t explain it, but it seems that all the film directors
are queers these days, and queers have more of an obsession for the prick than women,
see?” I told her about my complex regarding undershorts, but she had already branched
into politics and by the time we got back to the boardinghouse everything could be
blamed on North American imperialism. The dream republic would be a beach, with the
two of us in bathing suits, a beach is so much more poetic. Well, it’s no good now,
because we’re in an apartment where he has to take off his undershorts with an ease
so easy that before I realize it, he’s naked.

I dive into the bathtub. Delicious, delicious. I open the coldwater tap. Calm down,
Lorena Vaz Leme, take it easy. Better to start with the elevator, you just got into
the elevator. Alone? Of course, alone. But why doesn’t he get in with me? “Don’t forget
I’m married, dear. We can’t take the risk.” I open the bottle of bath salts and pour
some into the water. Eucalyptus perfume, still the artificial forest. Foam. Isn’t
it depressing, this fear he has of getting caught? It suggests a mask, and I have
a horror of masks. I’d like only to be truthful. Honest. “The world of the bourgeoisie
is the world of appearances,” Lião is always saying. M.N. and I belong to the bourgeoisie,
therefore we are condemned to this world. But are we really? I’d like to
exist
but I’m going to
be
tangled in the web of make-believe. “I like it so much when you call me M.N.,” he
said. I blow the foam which comes up to my chin. Like it or find it prudent? Only
initials. When, just before the rainstorm, he asked the office worker if he needed
a ride (he’d gone to the Department to see about his son’s transfer) and the fellow
said no, he had a car, and then when he turned to me and repeated the question—when
we went quickly out of the half-light of the halls into the dark night, I retained
only the impression of a dark-haired man with a pipe. Nothing more. In the car, I
became aware of his wellgroomed scent, a light touch of lavender mixed with tobacco,
I’ve always loved the smell of tobacco. During the ride I noticed that he had strong,
tranquil hands. A discreet wedding ring. I inhaled his essence of a man of medium
age and medium happiness, which is worse than complete unhappiness, according to Aunt
Luci who has been married various times. I felt at ease there with him. His style
of driving impressed me too, I never felt so secure in a car. The storm broke in the
middle of a story I was telling him about our ranch. When I got out at the gate, he
got out too and before I could stop him, he took off his coat and covered me. We ran
together through the garden blue with the lightning flashes that electrified our path,
his right arm around my shoulder while with the other arm he held up the raincoat
opened above our heads, a canopy in a procession protecting the sacrament.

Pallium
. Incredible how in an instant of disorder a small detail stands out with such force:
thunder, lightning and my fingers discovering his initials. I took him by the waist
to conduct him and then I felt the letters embroidered on his shirt. “What letters
are these?” I cried when I drew away from him to go up the steps. “M.N.!” he answered
and his voice became stronger than the storm, M.N.! I stopped on the steps and looked
at him. He continued in the same place, protecting himself with the raincoat. “Return,
M.N.!” I yelled. He confessed to me the next day with his lopsided smile that he had
been in doubt: Was I ordering him to return to the car, or return to see me again?