Mercè Rodoreda - The Selected Stories

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I forgot about the letters for a few days, but another incident made me wish to see them. I needed to discover who they were from and what they said. I knew practically nothing about Mârius’s life. I had never dared to ask him about his past, partly from discretion, partly because I was afraid of being disillusioned. I wondered why he had never spontaneously confided in me. Two weeks after my birthday, Mârius was called to the phone while we were having lunch. His briefcase was standing in the corner. I stood up without giving it a thought. Had I been told that lightning would strike me if I approached the briefcase, I would have done the same. It was locked. When I turned around, Elvira was standing by the table, looking at me. I was vexed and hated her. Suddenly I felt alone in a foreign house. Everything seemed strange and hostile. The walls, the furniture, those two people who could draw near without a sound, startle me, frighten me.

My desire to possess the letters was so intense that I was willing to risk everything.

From my diary:

I did something I should never have done. Something that did no one any good, but has hurt me tremendously. I took three letters from the packet. Just as I had resolved, I took the first and last letters, and one from the middle. The last was dated six months before I met Mârius. It tells of an affair that had ended. It is a letter of farewell. I have burned all three of them.

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It isn’t true, I didn’t burn them. I had taken them while Mârius was in the bathroom undressing. The briefcase lay at the foot of the bed, locked as before. But I had anticipated that and calculated I could squeeze my hand under the flap and pull them out. My heart was pounding furiously at the thought of seizing them, my pulse too. I tiptoed barefoot to the briefcase, ready to act. I knew where they were and slipped my hand in. I pulled out the first letter in the packet, but there wasn’t much room beneath the flap and the enveloped got crumpled, making a noise. I held my breath. I reached in again and pulled out the letter at the end of the packet. Then I removed one from the middle. When I was ready to stand up, I couldn’t; my legs had no strength. I couldn’t think clearly. I could only feel the three letters in my hand; everything whirled around me. I hid them under the rug and, with a huge effort, returned to bed. A moment later Mârius opened the bathroom door and the light fanned out to the foot of the bed.

Mârius had been asleep for a while. He had turned on his side facing me, and I could hear him breathing rhythmically. I was suddenly full of regret. I struggled to compose myself, but I couldn’t hold back the tears. I wept silently, the tears gushing out. From time to time I felt one dropping on the pillow. “What’s the matter?” How I wished I could simply have disappeared. Mârius pulled me toward him and held me. “It’s only nerves, only nerves.” He ran his hand through my hair and kissed me on the forehead. I was on the point of confessing what I’d done, telling him how distressed I was, asking him for the love of God to tear up the letters, throw away the briefcase that disturbed my rest. The mere sight of it upset me. He went back to sleep, but I lay awake all night. I finally dozed off in the morning. Mârius had already left when Elvira brought my breakfast. I couldn’t eat a thing. My mouth had a bitter taste, my tongue felt thick. I took one sip of coffee and got dressed. Why couldn’t I read the letters at home? I don’t know. Once I was dressed, I collected them, placed them at the bottom of my purse, and left the house.

Few people were on the street, but I felt like they were all observing me, could see the three stolen letters at the bottom of my purse. Somehow I found myself at a metro station; I don’t remember how I arrived there, but it seemed like a good place to read the letters. Who would take note of me seated on a bench with the hustle and bustle of trains and people? Then I caught sight of Roger approaching. I don’t know what expression of panic my face must have reflected; all I know is that his was filled with anxiety.

“Are you ill?”

“No, but I’ve been terribly nervous for some time now and I can’t sleep.”

He smiled benevolently.

“I can see that I need to pay you a visit.”

“Any time you wish.”

His presence calmed me, and I was sorry for him to leave.

“You’re not getting on the train?”

“No. I’m waiting for a friend.”

He waved to me through the window, and I continued sitting on the bench, not daring to open my purse.

When I emerged from the metro, I had the impression of arriving in a big city for the first time. The houses, the light, the sky, nothing was familiar. I felt the way a convalescent must feel after a long illness. I strolled about like an automaton. Instinctively I entered a café, as I had done in my student days. I sat down, removed the letters from my purse, and began reading them, as if the contents were completely irrelevant to me. The first read:

Dearest,

I can still imagine you at the station, I can hear your voice. You should not have come. I am obsessed by our parting, and a terrible sadness consumes me because we will never again live as we have during this time. Such brief happiness. Write to me, above all, write to me. If I had to be punished, the greatest punishment would be never to receive any news of you. Write to me in care of Eliana Porta, at her address. She is completely trustworthy. (Her address followed). I will never forget the months we have lived together. Remember this always: “I will never forget.” Elisa.

The second letter was longer and sadder.

Amor meu: life is so painful that I do not know when I will ever again find a moment of joy. I have given a lot of thought to what you propose, but it is not possible. I cannot ruin the life of a man who has placed all his trust in me. I cannot. Even yesterday, after a terrible night, I got up, determined to explain the situation. I couldn’t. Perhaps because I am weak, amor meu. It is too complicated to explain why we will be spending time in X. Nothing could hurt me as much. Eliana is coming with us. Write to me under her name as soon as you can. An occasional letter from you will comfort me in a way that no one, perhaps not even you, can imagine.

I realize the risk involved, but if you could come. . Just once. Do you recall the Hotel de Llevant, where we first loved each other, where we met? “Are you staying at the hotel?” “No, I live in a house on Avinguda de les Acàcies. I am meeting a friend, a woman who is staying here, in room number 10.” “Be careful not to speak poorly of me to your friend; I am in number 12.” Do you remember room 10, the balcony over the garden with the climbing jasmine, the sea?

I didn’t finish reading it. I wanted to see the other one, from the end of the packet, which I assumed would provide the most information, the most insight into that morsel of life from which I was barred. It was last letter of the story.

Amor meu, now we will not even have the consolation of writing to each other. Eliana is going away with her family for a while, but she is uncertain for how long. We will be left without even the comfort of seeing the familiar handwriting, only a shared past, fragmentary memories, a few sweet hours that slowly fade. You are free. If you despair, think of me, of my sacrifice, and remember that I suffer as much as you. Above all, remember that you have been, and will be, my only love. Elisa.

It was lunchtime and people had stopped work; the café had gradually filled by the time I left. It was late when I arrived home, and Mârius was waiting for me. He was concerned, had not wanted to eat without me. When he caught sight of me, he asked if I was ill. Could he have realized the three letters were missing? I could not be sure, and if he had realized, he dissimulated so well that he will never know how grateful I was. Yes, I was ill. Roger came that evening.