“Bread?”
Vicente had told her to sit next to Adriano, she wouldn’t need to talk much and she would be well looked after. He’d insisted that she go to the dinner, sent her flowers. But she knew that the insistence was Irene’s or some guest of hers; everything really was going well, the dinner was a success, Irene’s husband was laughing leaning over the table, though the voices sometimes freed themselves far above the harmonious noise of the cutlery and thickened unpleasantly — after the gathering they’d be friendly to each other, grateful because nobody had been offended, no piece of chicken had leapt off the plate, because nobody had eaten to the point of feeling unhappy, only that fullness that a moment longer would be uncomfortable, leaving eyes bleary and afflicted — but no, only the light dizziness nice, nice, nice. How I understand, how I understand everything, she was surprising herself passionate and confused: my God, make me sad — she was feeling her eyes and lips. And in the middle of everything Irene’s power leading herself with a certain anguish above everyone, inquiring rigorously of each face whether everything was all right. That was what was connecting the dinner to the kitchen toward which quick looks from Irene were being directed and where the dinner should be simplifying itself with a yellow light bulb, smoke, a heap of dirty dishes and where the little maid in a stiff rubber apron and cap was losing her impersonality. Oh no! . . . said Maria Clara laughing, one of her hands with its sparkling nails half-raised clutching a cigarette and lightly bending her sweet and ripe body. They were forming a group that understood one another. If one of them would see the drawing of a sad and tired woman with a red dress they’d say with a succinct air: it’s well-drawn. And just like that those men and women were meeting for an instant in that brown room — it occurred to her with a sigh. She said with a clear and pleasant voice — she who was far from the Farm, far from her own birth, swimming in an unfamiliar liquid but swimming:
“Please pass me the olives.”
That’s when things became real. Who’d forced her to speak, who; she could cry scared and tired in that instant because if there were a strange phrase to say it would be: please pass me the olives. Things were fleeing her shining in the distance, the table was glittering in the silverware and the glasses, everyone was bending their heads toward their plates smiling, she exhausted from always smiling lightly without ever releasing a guffaw — her face smooth, large, and blushing. The man across from her was a great journalist, Vicente had said to her, but added: of course, he came as Irene’s friend and not as the director of the newspaper; he wasn’t a great journalist, she was remembering now, he was the director of the newspaper. His face like a shoelace coming undone, Vicente. If Daniel had been there, witty as he had become, was “witty” the right word? she was afraid confused . . . , he’d give an answer: no, it looks like a wound that still hasn’t completely healed. Really, Daniel, when he laughed his features would stretch tightly and you should almost shout: careful, careful. She asked the little maid for water, suddenly life was so natural. Above all there were certain things that when they happened were so powerful that they destroyed their opposites no matter how real those were — was she making herself clear, Vicente? because she couldn’t manage to remember her body before Vicente without guiding herself back to a window at night, unable to sleep. Love had come in a single surge extinguishing the wait. But the power she’d possessed when she was a virgin she’d never have again. At the same time she felt the firm awareness that nothing had changed, nothing. Not exactly that . . . But that Vicente and the city were temporary like the rain that cannot last. She’d like to say it to Vicente, it would be good for him to realize that he hadn’t made her happy — or had he? — and then say: but Virgínia, darling, I don’t want that . . . She’d reply: but I feel so happy suffering for you . . . it’s the most I can do for someone . . . She’d suffered for Daniel, that’s it. The director of the paper had fleshy and eager ears, grossly blossoming beside his face and while he was speaking was pointing his finger at the things that were most impossible to be present. But what was happening?! God Almighty! whatever it was gave her a happiness, she was feeling like a piece of tremulous light, had the deep intuition that it was good to be alive — but whatever it was would end, that sparkling and frozen instant, that moment of a successful dinner party mixed with a calm and warm pleasure in her stomach, that moment that was bringing together in a compact memory the victorious minutes . . . what was happening?! so what was happening? they were offering her a cigarette and she was tapping it on her other closed hand in a gesture familiar for the others but new, balanced, tensely elegant, and careless for her. Horribly happy is how she was feeling and she was overcoming herself agonizing.
Heavy from fatigue and wine, managing to reach places and situations in stages without union, she stood from the table with the others, heavy with sadness. She
