Clarice Lispector - Selected Cronicas

No, this oblique heart of mine is right, even if the facts soon prove me wrong. A Little Stroll brings certain death, and the victim’s startled face remains with glassy eyes staring up at that complacent moon.

Aninha is a quiet woman from Minas who works here at our house. And when she speaks, which is very rarely, her voice sounds muffled. I have never had a maid called Aparecida, yet every time I am about to call Aninha, the only name that comes to mind is Aparecida. Aninha moves through the house like a silent apparition. One morning she was tidying up a corner of the sitting-room as I sat sewing in the opposite corner. Suddenly — no, not suddenly, nothing is sudden with her, but rather like a long, drawn-out silence — I could hear her voice asking me, as if reluctant to break the silence: ‘Does Madam write books?’ Taken aback, I said yes. Without interrupting her work or raising her voice, she asked me if I could lend her one of my books. I felt embarrassed but decided to speak frankly. I told her I did not think she would enjoy my books because they are rather complicated. Whereupon, still tidying up and with her voice sounding even more muffled, she replied: ‘I like complicated things. I can’t stomach sugared water .’

Jandira is the cook. But as strong as a horse. So strong that she is clairvoyant. One of my sisters was paying me a visit. Jandira came into the room, looked at her seriously and unexpectedly announced: ‘This trip Madam is hoping to make will happen, Madam is going through a very happy period in her life right now.’ And with these words she bustled out of the room. My sister looked at me in astonishment. Somewhat embarrassed, I made a weak gesture with my hands as if to say there was nothing I could do, while at the same time explaining: ‘It so happens she is clairvoyant.’ My sister calmly replied: ‘I see. Well, never mind, every woman gets the servants she deserves.’

You have probably already forgotten about my maid Aninha, that quiet little woman from Minas who wanted to read one of my books, no matter how complicated, because she could not stomach ‘sugared water’. And you will almost certainly have forgotten that for some strange reason I used to call her Aparecida, whereupon she suggested: ‘Perhaps it’s because I just appeared from nowhere.’ What I may have forgotten to mention is that you really had to like her in order to accept her as a person.

You may have forgotten her. I could never forget her. Neither her muffled voice, nor those false front teeth which she would wear to please me although she did not really need them. Not that they could be seen because she scarcely moved her lips and even her smile seemed to turn inwards. I also forgot to mention that Aninha was downright ugly.

One morning she went out shopping and did not come back for ages. When she finally reappeared she was smiling inanely to herself, as if she were toothless and all gums. The money I had given her to do the shopping was crumpled up in her right hand and the shopping bag was hanging from her left wrist.

There was something different about her appearance. But it was difficult to tell what it could be. She seemed even sweeter than usual. And a little more ‘conspicuous’, as if she had made some progress. This change in her appearance made us ask suspiciously: ‘What about the shopping?’ She replied: ‘I had no money.’ Taken aback we showed her the money in her hand. Gazing at it, all she could say was: ‘Oh!’ Something else about her strange behaviour made us look inside the shopping bag. It was full of milk bottle tops and other stoppers, along with scraps of dirty paper.

Then she said: ‘I must lie down for I have the most awful pain right here’ — and as if she were a tiny child she pointed to the crown of her head. She was not complaining, simply telling us. She stayed in bed for hours without saying a word. Having assured me that she did not like ‘childish’ books, Aninha now looked as innocent as any child. If we tried to question her, she would simply answer that she could not get up.

Before I knew what was happening, our clairvoyant cook, Jandira, had already called an ambulance, having decided that Aninha was quite mad. I went to see for myself. She lay there silent and mad. And I never saw such a sweet expression.

I explained to the cook that she should have asked for the emergency service run by the local Psychiatric Unit. Feeling rather stunned, I automatically rang the Pinel Institute myself. I also felt a curious sweetness inside me, which I cannot explain. Well, perhaps I can. That sweetness was my great love for Aninha.

In the meantime, the ambulance had arrived from the hospital. Sitting up in bed, she allowed the doctor to examine her. He could find nothing clinically wrong with her. Then he began to question Aninha: Why had she collected all those milk-bottle tops and scraps of paper? She replied in a quiet voice: to decorate my room. He asked her several other questions. Ugly, mad and gentle, Aninha patiently gave all the right answers as if she had prepared them beforehand. I told the doctor I had already called an ambulance from a Psychiatric Unit. He assured me: ‘Just as well. This is a psychiatric case if ever there was one.’

We waited for the other ambulance to arrive, sitting there in bewilderment, silent and pensive. The ambulance arrived. The psychiatrist lost no time in making his diagnosis. The wards were full and she would have to be treated as an out-patient. But Aninha had no one to look after her. So I telephoned a doctor friend who contacted a colleague at the Pinel Institute where they agreed to admit her until my friend could examine her for himself. ‘Are you a writer?’ — asked the doctor, who turned out to be a distinguished academic, I began mumbling: ‘I…’ when he interrupted: ‘It’s just that your face is familiar and your friend mentioned your first name on the telephone.’ In such a situation I could scarcely remember my own name, but unperturbed he went on to say, all friendly and gushing and showing greater interest in me than in poor Aninha: ‘Well I never, how delightful to meet you in person.’ Sounding foolish and insincere, all I could think of to say was: ‘I’m pleased to meet you, too.’

Then Aninha was carted off, that sweet, gentle creature from Minas, wearing her dazzling false teeth, more or less aware of what was happening. Only part of her was conscious: that part which can cause us pain. In short, my doctor friend examined her and diagnosed her condition as being extremely serious. She was admitted at once.

I spent that night in my sitting-room, smoking one cigarette after another until first light. The entire house seemed to be impregnated with an unnerving sweetness which only Aninha could have left behind.

Dear Aninha, how I miss you and the clumsy way you moved around the house. I shall write to your mother in Minas and tell her to come and fetch you. Who knows what will become of you? The one thing I do know is that you will go on being sweet and mad for the rest of your life, with the odd moment of lucidity. Of course you can use milk-bottle tops to decorate a room. And why not rescue crumpled bits of paper for the same purpose? She could not stomach ‘sugared water’ and the water she had to drink was anything but sugared. This world is anything but sugared. That was something I discovered as I sat up that night, aggressively smoking one cigarette after another. Oh, the aggression with which I smoked! At times I was overcome with rage, followed by fear, then resignation. God’s sweetness can be very depressing. Can it be good for one to be as sweet as this?