Mercè Rodoreda - The Selected Stories

That is how I learned what it is to have “ seny ,” good sense.

•

I went out this afternoon with Elvira. We visited her niece Maria, who is married and has an eleven-month-old baby. The sun was scorching, not a bit of air. We crossed a patio at the back of which was a printing press. Through the open window you could see an office and hear the sound of a linotype. To the right of the patio was a glass door, a window with red geraniums on either side of it. We went straight into the dining room. The table was covered with a blue-and-white checkered oilcloth. Maria was sewing. A cradle covered by a bride’s veil stood in the corner, and a sewing machine beneath the window. We had a bite to eat. Maria had fixed sandwiches and prepared fresh peaches and pears doused in sweet wine and sugar. The baby woke up. His skin was like milk, his eyes like stars. He was whimpering. He must have been hot and in a bad mood. Maria breastfed him. Her husband came in at six. He works at the printing office. He went off to wash and change. When he returned to the dining room, he was naked from the waist up, wearing blue trousers. Maria handed the boy to Elvira and served her husband some fruit salad. As she did so, he put his arm around her and pulled her forcefully toward him. “Keep still,” she exclaimed, but she didn’t move away. He ran his hand through her hair, tangling it. Then she sat down. But her eyes were fixed on her husband’s chest, staring at his dark, glossy skin, fascinated.

•

Sometimes, when I am alone, or when I am bathing, or when Mârius falls asleep before me I think: my husband . And when he sleeps, I place my hand on his side and feel his rhythmic breathing against my palm and think: my husband.

•

My first reaction was rather vulgar: I wanted him to find me attractive. I had never been concerned about appearance, but now I needed a weapon. Clothes. I would turn myself into an object of admiration. In three months I succeeded in becoming different. I devoted all my time to me: my hands, his eyes, my body. Roger fell in love with me. The only thing I accomplished was something I didn’t wish. I was in love with my husband, and I wanted him to love me deeply. Roger’s devotion to me led me to realize that I represented very little to Mârius. I had entered his life in a natural, easy way, like the sun that rises every morning. He had me so close by that he didn’t notice me.

I would have liked to leave the house and him. Had I never known Mârius, I could have. Where could I go? Back to my silly art classes? To my uncle’s house, which I had left because we didn’t get along? From time to time a secret hope came over me. What if everything were dead? What if the Senyora, the ibis, the romantic trips were all dead and buried? But if everything were dead, he wouldn’t keep the letters. They were his treasure, his obsession. The briefcase, the letters inside. Briefcase and letters always close by, the key in his pocket. Had he realized that three were missing? Why had he allowed his past to become my present? Why had he allowed my love to. .?

I was with Roger on one occasion and asked, “Mârius took a trip to Italy, didn’t he?”

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing.”

Some days I was filled with lethargy. To get out of bed and dress was torture. Why had I allowed a ghost to separate us? To keep from thinking about her and the letters, I became determined to love him desperately. As if each night of love making were the last. The more my passion was excited, the more depressed I became thinking about that woman. His loyalty to her memory stood between us, breathing gently and, no doubt, panting.

One day I couldn’t bear it any longer, and I brought up the subject. It was a gentle spring afternoon, like those I used to enjoy with him.

“I’ve never demanded anything of you. May I ask you something?”

“What?” he said, glancing at me in alarm, as if he guessed what I meant.

“The letters.”

“What letters?”

“Your letters, the ones you always carry in your briefcase.”

“I don’t know what you are referring to.”

I immediately understood, yet still I insisted.

“I realize that I should make an effort to ignore them. I wish I could. It’s impossible. They exist, and they cause me pain. Tear them up. I beg of you, tear them up.”

He reached into his jacket pocket: “Here, we are going to the theater this evening with Roger. You need a distraction. I think you will enjoy it.” And he walked away. When he reached the door, he turned, “Never speak of this again. I would appreciate it.”

Mârius always kissed me on the forehead when he left. Not that day.

•

Roger, dearest Roger. Until now I have tried to be objective in everything I have written. But I can no longer. I began writing this account for me, but in the end, it is for you. Because you have loved me. Because I have hurt you and you don’t deserve it. Because I need a friend; I need to feel that I am not alone. I remember you with affection and that memory helps me now. But I have never loved you. Despite the hatred I now feel for Mârius, I have loved only him. He has been the center of my life.

Do you recall the performance of Ondina ? When the years have passed, if you should think of me, remember me as I was that night. I made you believe things that did not exist. Forgive me. I dressed for you, I smiled for you. Please forgive me. For the first time that night I thought seriously of killing myself. They say that a suicide’s last wish always comes true. I thought of killing myself as an act of vengeance against Mârius, to ruin his life, so that he would love me more than. .

Do you remember the dress? Blue. You said, “Waves.” And I wanted to die. I sat between you: Mârius on my right, you on my left. I was wearing the diamond dove that Mârius had given me in my hair. Men looked at me. You commented on it. Mârius seemed absent. “He’s thinking about the letters. Thinking about her. When I am dead he will never think of her again.” You gave me a prescription for gardenal tablets. I wanted two tubes of them. A few days after you prescribed the first, I told you I had lost the prescription. I thought one might not be enough. I wanted to be sure. I wanted to die. I thought of Odette, who was taking a course in ethics at the Sorbonne. She didn’t die. I didn’t want anyone to be affected — as I had been when I visited Odette — by a person who slowly returns from death, her face all green, in a large hospital room filled with rows of beds.

Do you remember the summer in Pyla? It was my last effort to live. The smell of pine trees, the dark dunes, the lichen the sea spewed out every night. The couple we talked about. Lovers. What mysterious secret had they discovered? The soul or the flesh?

I know that I am inexperienced, that I should have accepted what was handed to me, not looked beyond, not tried to speculate. Perhaps happiness consists in the capacity for resignation. But I want more. I would have wished for the letters to have ceased to exist. Her as well. For a few days I succeeded in forgetting. Only pine trees, sea, sun, silence. My husband sleeping beside me. “If I commit suicide, he will never again sleep like this.”

You said, “Acute neurasthenia. Your nervous system is such that even a change in light can unbalance it.” Do you understand now, Roger, what was making me ill? We came back in September, and I went to our café. I wanted to relive that first day right down to the smallest detail, poisoning myself even more. I returned to her house, to catch a glimpse of her from the street, to torment myself. The trees were just beginning to turn golden. I returned to the pension where I had lived for three months, truly lived, without anguish, without suspicions, sure of everything. Of him and of myself.