José Saramago - Skylight

“You tickled me!”

Furious because she had been tricked and, even more, because she had been caught showing her daughter some motherly affection, Rosália said irritably:

“So you were sleeping, were you? The headache’s gone, has it? Your trouble is you don’t want to work, you lazy so-and-so!”

As if to prove her mother right, the girl stretched slowly and luxuriously, and, as she did so, her lace-trimmed nightdress gaped open to reveal two small, round breasts. Although Rosália did not know why that careless gesture offended her, she could not conceal her displeasure and muttered:

“Cover yourself up, will you? Young women nowadays aren’t even embarrassed in the presence of their own mothers!”

Maria Cláudia opened her eyes wide. She had blue eyes, a very brilliant blue, but cold, like the distant stars whose light we see only because they are far, far away.

“What does it matter? Anyway, I’m decent now!”

“If I’d shown myself to my mother like that when I was your age, I’d have gotten a slap in the face.”

“That seems a bit extreme.”

“You think so, do you? Well, I reckon you could do with a good slap too.”

Maria Cláudia raised her arms again, pretending to stretch. Then she yawned.

“Times have changed.”

Rosália opened the window and said:

“They have indeed, and for the worse.” Then she went back over to the bed. “So, are you going to work or not?”

“What time is it?”

“Nearly ten o’clock.”

“It’s too late now.”

“It wasn’t a little while ago.”

“I had a headache then.”

This short, sharp exchange indicated irritation on both sides. Rosália was seething with suppressed anger, and Maria Cláudia was annoyed by her mother’s moralizing.

“A headache indeed! You’re a malingerer, that’s what you are!”

“Is it my fault I have a headache?”

Rosália exploded:

“Don’t you talk to me like that, young lady. I’m your mother, remember.”

The girl was unimpressed. She merely shrugged, as if to say that this last point was hardly worth discussing, then she jumped out of bed and stood there, barefoot, her silk nightdress draped about her soft, shapely body. Her daughter’s youthful beauty cooled Rosália’s irritation, which vanished like water into dry sand. Rosália felt proud of Maria Cláudia and her lovely body. Indeed, what she said next was tantamount to a surrender:

“You’d better tell the office.”

Maria Cláudia, apparently oblivious to that subtle change of tone, replied dully:

“I’ll ask Dona Lídia if I can use her phone.”

Rosália grew irritated again, perhaps because her daughter had put on a housecoat, and her more discreetly clothed body had lost its power to enchant.

“You know I don’t like you going to see Dona Lídia.”

Maria Cláudia’s eyes were even more innocent than usual.

“Why ever not?”

If the conversation was to continue, Rosália would have to say things she would prefer not to. She knew that her daughter understood perfectly well what she meant, but she nonetheless felt that there were subjects best not touched on in the presence of a young woman. She had been brought up with the idea that parents and children should respect each other, and she still clung to that. She therefore pretended not to have heard her daughter’s question and left the room.

Once she was alone again, Maria Cláudia smiled. Standing in front of the mirror, she unbuttoned her housecoat and her nightdress and looked at her breasts. A shiver ran through her and she flushed slightly. Then she smiled again, feeling vaguely nervous, but pleased too, something like a frisson of pleasure tinged with guilt. Then she buttoned up her housecoat, took one last glance at herself in the mirror and left the room.

In the kitchen, she went over to her mother, who was making some toast, and kissed her on the cheek. Rosália could not deny that the kiss pleased her, and while she did not reciprocate, her heart beat faster with contentment.

“Go and have a wash, dear, the toast is nearly ready.”

Maria Cláudia shut herself in the bathroom. She returned looking fresh and cool, her skin glossy and clean, her now unpainted lips slightly stiff from the cold water. Her mother’s eyes shone when she saw her. Cláudia sat down at the table and began eagerly devouring the toast.

“It is nice to stay home sometimes, isn’t it?” Rosália said.

The girl giggled:

“You see, I was right, wasn’t I?”

Rosália felt she had gone too far and tried to backtrack a little:

“Yes, up to a point, but you mustn’t make a habit of it.”

“The people at work won’t mind.”

“They might, and you need to keep that job. Your father doesn’t earn very much, you know.”

“Don’t worry, I can handle it.”

Rosália would like to have asked her what she meant by this, but chose not to. They finished their breakfast in silence, then Maria Cláudia got up and said:

“I’m going to ask Dona Lídia if I can use her phone.”

Her mother opened her mouth to object, but said nothing. Her daughter had already disappeared down the corridor.

“There’s no need to close the door if you’re not going to be gone very long.”

Rosália heard the front door close, but preferred not to think that her daughter had done this on purpose in order to go against her wishes. She filled the sink and started washing the breakfast things.

Maria Cláudia did not share her mother’s scruples about their downstairs neighbor; on the contrary, she really liked Dona Lídia. Before ringing the doorbell, she straightened the collar of her housecoat and smoothed her hair. She regretted not having applied a touch of color to her lips.

The bell rang out stridently and echoed down the stairwell. Maria Cláudia felt a slight noise behind her and was sure that Justina was peering through the spyhole in the door opposite. She was just about to turn and look when Dona Lídia’s door opened.

“Good morning, Dona Lídia.”

“Good morning, Claudinha. What brings you here? Won’t you come in?”

“If I may…”

In the dark corridor, Maria Cláudia felt the warm, perfumed air wrap about her.

“So what can I do for you?”

“I’m sorry to bother you again, Dona Lídia.”

“You’re not bothering me at all. You know how much I enjoy your visits.”

“Thank you. I wondered if I could phone the office to tell them I won’t be coming in today.”

“Of course, feel free, Claudinha.”

She gently ushered her toward the bedroom, a room that Maria Cláudia could not enter without feeling slightly troubled, for the atmosphere made her positively dizzy. She had never seen such lovely furnishings; there were mirrors and curtains, a red sofa and a soft rug on the floor, bottles of perfume on the dressing table, the smell of expensive cigarettes, but none of those things alone could explain her disorderly feelings. Perhaps it was the whole situation, the presence of Lídia herself, something as vague and imponderable as a burning, corrosive gas that slips unnoticed through every filter. In that room, she always felt as if she somehow lost all self-control. She became as tipsy as if she had drunk champagne and felt an irresistible desire to do something silly.

“There’s the phone,” said Lídia. “I’ll leave you in peace.”

She made as if to go, but Maria Cláudia said urgently:

“No, no, really, Dona Lídia, there’s no need. It’s not a matter of any importance…”

The intonation she gave to these words and the smile that accompanied them seemed to suggest that there were other matters of importance and that Dona Lídia knew precisely what those were. Seeing Maria Cláudia still standing, Lídia exclaimed: