good behavior, of serene and dignified withdrawal. But sometimes she’d lose her grip and talk too much, eyes open, mouth full of saliva, surprised, drunk, afflicted, and with a certain vanity about herself that would arrive hot with humiliation. She’d write long letters to Daniel, sometimes in a single vivid and grim burst. She’d reread them with contentment before sending them and it seemed to her that they were truly inspired because though they discussed reality she hadn’t noticed it at the time she was dealing with it. She’d doubt whether they were sincere since what she felt had never been as harmonious as what she was telling him, but syncopated and almost fake. No, it wasn’t unhappiness that she was feeling, unhappiness was a moist thing on which someone could feed for days and days finding pleasure, unhappiness was the letters. She started taking a base and voluptuous pleasure in writing them and since she’d send them as soon as they were written and try to remember them in vain, she thought of copying them, which would fill her days. She’d reread them and really weep as if weeping over someone who wasn’t her. How insufferable was that new sensation that was overtaking her, anxious, petty, luxuriating. Between the letters what she’d feel was suffocating and dusty, unbreathable, in a flurry of sand and strident sounds. But was she being sincere in writing to Daniel? Don’t lie, don’t lie — she was inventing — accept the thing as it was, dry, pure, daring — she was trying out the feeling; for a while she’d lose the need to be friendly though she really didn’t have anyone to be friendly to. And when she’d reach that arid purity she didn’t know that she was seeking with seriousness the true things without finding a thing. What would make her despair distantly was in most cases the uselessness of her lucidity; what to do with the fact of listening in the garden to a man refer to his journey and, looking at the ring on his finger, figuring out with a calm clairvoyance — and one that could be mistaken — that he must have visited a place with women and that he kept discussing business and his wife? what to do with that? She wasn’t seeing what she needed but what she was seeing. She didn’t want to force herself to take a walk, go to movie theaters but without compelling herself her day was dizzyingly aimed at that unknown past and, placid, she’d keep herself in an unhappy silence of acts. — And hadn’t it been by compelling herself that she’d gone out once and met Vicente again? rebinding the vague acquaintance perhaps forever. At that time it was already easy to love. Love really was old, the idea had been exhausted at the beginning of her life in the city; she was already feeling experienced and calmed by the long meditation of waiting. She was remembering the first night. Vicente’s body leaning on her shoulder was weighing like earth; for him it had never been tragic to live. A bit before she’d tried to joke around, asked him to lend her his glasses; in the middle of everything, she’d thought then not looking at him quickly, in the middle of everything he’s afraid I’ll break his glasses. And that had given her a certain resignation about the rest. — So who could she hang around with? Who if not the doorman. She’d stop to chat a bit at the main entrance of the building, on the wide street with few trees where the general staircase ascended. Then she’d turn the corner, take a few steps into the little narrow and rustling street, open her own door, with her own almost vertical staircase that ended in the bedroom, the sitting room, the bathroom, and the tiny kitchen. She’d stay at the window observing the long and poorly made street, a hard and bushy tree shivering; she could make out the construction sites rising on the corner. The doorman was a dark and thin man, married and with two children. He told her how he’d got the job. The owner thought that even in a poor building you had to keep up morality. Really families were asking: do proper people live here? And that had been why, he’d repeat as a shy excuse, he’d told Virgínia right at the start — as he did with all the tenants, with all the tenants — that it was forbidden to bring visitors of the opposite sex to the apartments, except brothers or fathers, of course. He wore his belt low and loose, had small eyes, close together. He’d tell her how he lived, how he’d gone to the movies, how he had a little garage at home, of which he’d made an “Office.” Only on Sundays did he go home substituted by a hasty and asthmatic old man who wasn’t unpleasant but who somehow didn’t want anyone’s friendliness. Miguel and Virgínia liked each other; since the nights were long for both of them he’d sometimes come up for a cup of coffee. She’d arrange the sitting room with joy as if playing seriously, one day she even bought some flowers. He’d sit and while she was making coffee in the kitchen they’d talk louder without seeing each other, hearing with pleasure and attention their own voices. She’d come in with the tray, both would bring chairs to the table and drink the strong and fresh coffee with a concerned pleasure, exchanging glances of approval. When winter came and rains fell, night in the apartment was good and warm with a young man sitting drinking coffee. She inquired suddenly frightened:
“Sir, you’re not avoiding your duty?”
“No,” he assured her. “What I have to do is stay in the building. And anyway who’s going to need information at this hour . . .”
“But the door . . .”
“No, the door is already closed. The only people who come in are
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