José Saramago - Skylight

“Just pretend that nothing happened last night, and I’ll do the same.”

The smile vanished from Caetano’s lips. A deep frown line appeared between his eyebrows.

“Perhaps that won’t be possible,” he answered.

“You know plenty of other women. You can amuse yourself with them.”

“And what if I demand my conjugal rights?”

“I couldn’t refuse you, but you’d soon grow weary of that.”

“I see — at least I think I do. How do you explain your behavior last night, then?”

“If you had an ounce of dignity, you wouldn’t ask such a question! Have you forgotten that I spat in your face?”

The expression on Caetano’s face hardened. His hands, resting on the mattress, clenched. He seemed about to stand up, but stayed where he was. In a slow, sarcastic voice, he said:

“Ah, yes, I’d forgotten about that. I remember now, though, but I also remember that you only spat in my face once …”

Justina saw what he was driving at and said nothing.

“Come on, answer!”

“No, I feel ashamed for you and for me.”

“What about me? I’ve had to suffer years of being despised by you.”

“You deserve it.”

“Who are you to despise me?”

“No one, but I do.”

“Why?”

“I began to despise you as soon as I knew you, and I only really knew you once we were married. You’re depraved, you are.”

Caetano shrugged impatiently:

“You’re just jealous.”

“Jealous? Me? Don’t make me laugh! You can only feel jealous of someone you love, and I don’t love you. I may have once, but it didn’t last. When my daughter was ill, did you care? You spent all your time with your fancy women!”

“Now you’re talking nonsense!”

“If that’s what you think, fine. I just want you to know that what happened last night won’t happen again.”

“We’ll see about that.”

“What do you mean?”

“You called me depraved. Maybe I am, but what if, for some reason, I should start taking an interest in you again?”

“Don’t bother. Besides, it’s been years since you thought of me as a woman.”

“You sound almost sorry.”

Justina did not respond. Her husband was eyeing her malevolently:

“Are you sorry?”

“No! If I was, I’d be sinking as low as all those other women you know!”

“Going with them, of course, is less convenient. With you, I just have to reach out and grab you. I am your husband after all.”

“Unfortunately for me.”

“Now you’re being nasty. Just because I didn’t react when you spat at me doesn’t mean I’m prepared to put up with all your back talk.”

“You don’t frighten me. You threatened to beat me to a pulp once, and I didn’t so much as turn a hair.”

“Don’t provoke me.”

“Like I said, you don’t frighten me!”

“Justina!”

She had moved closer as she spoke. She was standing by the bed, looking down at her husband. He reached out his right arm and caught her by the wrist. He didn’t pull her toward him, but held her firm. Justina felt a tremor run through her whole body. Her knees were shaking as if they were about to buckle beneath her. Caetano said in a hoarse voice:

“You’re right… I am depraved. I know you don’t love me, but ever since I saw you naked the other night, I’ve been mad for you, do you hear, mad. If I hadn’t come home last night, I would have died!”

It wasn’t so much his words as the tone in which he said them that troubled Justina. Feeling her husband drawing her toward him, she desperately tried to free herself from his grip:

“Let me go!”

What little strength she had was ebbing away. She could feel herself being drawn downward, feel her own pulse pounding in her ears. Then her eyes fell on the photograph of her daughter and her stubbornly sweet smile. She pushed hard against the edge of the bed, resisting his efforts to pull her down, and when she saw that he was about to grab her with his other hand, she squirmed around and bit the fingers gripping her. Caetano let out a scream and released his grip.

She ran into the kitchen. She understood now, understood why he had acted as he did. If she hadn’t given in to that impulse to reveal herself naked to her husband, none of this would have happened. The Justina she was today would be the same Justina she had been yesterday. She had spoken out, but what had she gained? Only the certain knowledge that everything had changed. It was pure chance that she hadn’t given in this time. The photo of her daughter would have been of little help if the conversation with her husband earlier hadn’t given her the strength to resist; that, of course, and what had happened only a few hours before… “Which means that if, instead of trying to have sex with me so soon afterward, he’d allowed a day or two to pass and then tried again, I probably wouldn’t have resisted…”

Justina was busy making lunch, her thoughts elsewhere. And what she was thinking was this: “He’s depraved, a lecher, which is why I’ve always despised him. He’s still depraved, which is why I still despise him. And yet, even though I despise him, I gave in to him, and I know that, given the opportunity, I’d do the same again. Is that a marriage? Must I conclude, then, that after all these years I am just as depraved as he? If I loved him, I wouldn’t use a word like ‘depraved.’ I would find it all perfectly natural and would always give myself to him as I did last night. But is it possible not to love a man and still feel what I felt? I don’t love him and yet he drove me mad with pleasure. Is it the same for other people? Do they feel nothing but loathing and pleasure? And what about love? Can pure animal lust give you the kind of pleasure you should only get from love? Or is love just lust in disguise?”

“Justina! I’m getting up. Where are my pajamas?”

Getting up? Already? Was he planning to spend all morning with her? Perhaps he was going out… She went into the bedroom, opened the wardrobe and handed him his pajamas. He took them from her without a word. Justina didn’t even look at him. Deep down, she still despised him, despised him more and more, but she lacked the courage to look him in the face. She was trembling when she returned to the kitchen. “I’m afraid, afraid of him! Me! If someone had told me yesterday that one day I would feel afraid of him, I would have laughed.”

Hands in his pockets, slippers flapping, Caetano slouched through the kitchen on his way to the bathroom. His wife breathed again: she had feared he might speak to her and she was not prepared for that.

In the bathroom, Caetano was whistling a tuneful fado. He stood in front of the mirror and interrupted his whistling in order to run his hand over his rough beard. Then, while he was preparing his razor, he began again. He lathered up his face and again stopped whistling to concentrate on his shaving. He had nearly finished when he heard his wife’s voice outside the closed door:

“Your coffee’s ready.”

“All right, coming.”

Caetano didn’t care two hoots about the conversation he’d had with his wife. He knew he had won. A bit of resistance on her part would just make things all the more interesting. Dona Justina was going to have to pay, however reluctantly, for the shabby way she’d treated him. He had caught her out. Why had it never occurred to him before that sex would be the best way to humiliate her? Her scorn and pride lay shattered and broken! And the slut had enjoyed it too! True, she’d spat in his face, but he’d make her pay for that as well. He’d do the same to her one day, possibly more than once. Yes, next time she began moaning and writhing around, he’d give her a taste of her own medicine — take that! How would she react, he wondered. She might get angry… but only afterward.