“Yes, Vicente, yes,” after all yes added nothing and everything calmed down in its place. And when they turned on the radio and a song rang out he’d murmured:
“An unbearable kind of music . . .”
He hadn’t said anything extraordinary but his calm demeanor without so much as contempt fit well with the nature of that day — she didn’t like it either and traced a movement of repulsion that was perhaps too strong, her lips pressed in disgust. He smiled looking at her and she, animated, living, spoke with disdain through her teeth as if she had triumphed:
“No, I don’t like it . . . so . . . so intrusive . . .” her face unmade itself immediately, the expression beneath it emerged engorged, surprised and childish because he was opening his brown eyes behind his glasses, trying to understand her, his shock saying ashamedly, benevolent: but Virgínia . . . what’s this all about, Virgínia? Yes, she’d gone too far; because really how could music be intrusive? perhaps she’d wanted to say: the music had no dignity in its joy, as she’d heard said once, yes, that was it! but now it had become impossible to explain. And even — no!, she hid hard and alone, so if he wanted to judge her he’d have to judge her in silence. She was unpleasantly surprised when Vicente would interpret her. How other people’s understanding would dry one out. She would watch her words with curiosity but afterward couldn’t meld her discoveries with herself — how useless it would be to split a branch from a tree, make a chair out of it and give it back to the tree: whatever he’d make of her she’d never take back although she carried it with her. She’d rather he spare her — only from Daniel could she stand the attempts and the errors because Daniel and she were made of the same hesitant material and never approached things laughing; the maximum joy of both would fit into a little smile of Vicente’s. To distance herself thus from Vicente and move toward Daniel scared her and she stuck to Vicente so suddenly that their bodies practically crashed into each other and when she looked at him Vicente smiled. And hadn’t that almost been the reason she loved him? because she’d foreseen that Vicente could laugh out loud not barely like Daniel but in a stupid laughter that in the middle of its effort recalled her impossibility to laugh louder — and that would cause a joyful tenderness, a desire to forgive with a laugh and forget. Also in love she’d let him guide her — and the only way in which she thought about it boiled down to seeing herself once again watching him move, speak. Just as she could err by herself: she’d always serenely thought of herself as a great lover until he’d come along, proving her wrong — and thus the months went by. She’d rather Vicente not have embraced her every time punctually. She’d rather not have seen him change his voice and his gaze as if he were finishing one phase and starting a new one. She’d rather he didn’t desire her so strongly at times, almost paralyzing her with hurried astonishment — although all that really only happened confusedly, powerless, without provoking even a defense, taking on the only possible form of life. She never had enough time to get used to his phrases because he’d say another as soon as he was finishing the first, she never had enough time to get used to his caresses because he’d immediately move on to the next leaving her still focused on the previous one — so those were the secrets of life. She’d let him guide her . . . yes, yes, every once in a while in a surprising bit of news she’d realize what he desired and her poor body would hesitate in mystery, all of her would widen and she’d lose herself receding deaf . . . — it would be impossible to pass through her being with one of her own thoughts. She’d never try to move ahead of Vicente; she followed him because she couldn’t carry by herself, in her damp hand, that quick star that would sometimes lose its shape like a frozen drop that turns into liquid; everything so dangerous, simple, and light . . . so that was the secret toward which she’d been heading ever since childhood; the center of desire was resplendent and somber, electric and so terribly new and fragile in its contexture that it could destroy itself just by going a bit deeper, just by sparkling an instant more.
They had a little something for dinner at night. Afterward she was going home, the tram cutting the dark. She was feeling that she was going back, that she was going back. If one day he’d think to accompany her home she might experience a deep and stifled satisfaction like the one a married woman must experience every moment. She was jumping from the tram and walking the small stretch on foot. She was opening the door, going up, looking for a moment at the things before flipping the switch — she was connecting herself to everything without touching anything. She’d lie down and pull the white sheets in the darkness — the quiet moment before sleep was coming as if she were falling then into her true state. And that moment was so profoundly quiet that it would dissolve the entire day, tossing her into the night without fear, without joy, looking, looking.
It was finally the natural thing to live alone. They’d barely rented an apartment when Daniel already got a life she
