Very white beneath the lamp that was now sparkling in an increase of mute energy, she was looking at him, her lips calm and colorless.
“Forgive me, ma’am,” Miguel was going on frightened and already at the beginning of an awkwardness, “the dinner was good but just because I came here doesn’t mean anything, right? I myself offered right at the beginning to split the costs, right?” he was asking anxious and suddenly full of hope.
“Right.”
“Well then, well then!” he screamed less asphyxiated, “I knew you were reasonable, ma’am . . .” — he became more polite speaking with difficulty. — “You understand, ma’am, a married man isn’t free, it’s that old story of making a commitment . . .” — he laughed in a pale and disconcerted grimace. Both were still standing, each at one end of the table beside the places they had occupied at dinner. The silence was growing between them like an empty balloon filling more and more dangerously with air and strangely could not be interrupted, each attempted word would die empty in the face of its power. She remembered with a hard pleasure the ugly names she’d learned at the Farm — but something like modesty or already indifference was keeping her from pronouncing them and she waited for an instant watchful, scrutinizing herself imperceptible, blinking with speed. She thought once again that such a strong light was strange, her little sitting room so enriched and mute. But how to use such facts as a way of life? they weren’t plausible, they seemed to lack the first reality; so what to attach them to? those were the true events themselves and she wasn’t getting any explanation from what was happening, no overview except the simple repetition of what was happening. Miguel was waiting with purposely inexpressive eyes, trying to maintain his earlier strength and not lose ground; some extraordinary thing was slowly happening in the room.
“You are the lowest thing in the world, sir,” she said loud and simple as if singing.
“But . . . what . . . ,” the man murmured flinching surprised, immediately attempting an offended expression.
She sighed deeply.
“Therefore would you please leave forever,” — she was speaking calmly and hearing with pleasure and attention her own words coming out long and exact; the fatigue from the dinner preparations was weighing on her body.
“But . . . but I didn’t offend you, ma’am, did I?” he murmured.
She looked at him without strength, absorbed:
“Yes, yes . . .”
“I did?” he was screaming extremely perturbed.
“Oh no, you didn’t. I’m just tired. Farewell, farewell.”
“I’d like to explain that I didn’t . . .”
“No, farewell, farewell,” she replied.
Surprised and already filled with displeasure he was departing while staring at Virgínia with martyred and humble eyes.
“Listen, what’s this all about?” she suddenly screamed at him, taken by a light fever when he was already at the door, “you don’t have to leave upset with people!”
“But isn’t that right? isn’t that right?” he was screaming hurriedly with his moist eyes blinking.
“That’s right.”
And since a moment of empty and pensive silence followed she concluded:
“Farewell, farewell,” — and almost pushed him down the stairs as she closed the door.
She’d spend the mornings sitting at the table looking at her fingers, her nails smooth and pink. Could everyone know what I know? would occur to her deeply. She was trying to distract herself by drawing straight lines without the aid of a ruler — but where was the charm of the work? unable to say quite why it seemed to her that she was failing at every instant. Sometimes she’d say a few words out loud and while she was hearing herself it seemed to her in an uneasy and delicious astonishment that she wasn’t herself and would surprise herself in a fright that was a lie too. And then in another weak and drunken astonishment, she was herself. She’d say in a small bored voice, shaking her head: well I’m not happy, I’m not happy at all. Or she’d come to live in an intimate exaltation, in an ardent purity whose beginning was an imperceptible fakeness. She also knew how to close her eyes and shut herself off with a brute power. She’d then crack open her eyelids with delicacy as if letting that power slowly drain — and make things out under a certain golden dusk light, wafting in a tremulous fire, brightened and filmy; the air between them was tense and cold, noises would sharpen into swift needles. Tired, she’d suddenly open her eyes all the way, set the power loose — in a mute bang things would dry out ashen, hard and calm, the world after all. Or she’d be reborn like someone trembling, a jolt of surprise. She’d dress with as much care as if about to find a crowd waiting at the door. She’d go out into the street, walk slowly down the sidewalk showing herself, her eyes watchful, the feeling that she was glowing ardent, serious. She was a hard insect, a scarab, flying in sudden lines, beating against windowpanes singing with stridency. And really, despite her modest appearance and her pale cheeks, some people would look at her with curiosity, often with more than a moment of attention. She’d get excited with secret brutality; suddenly it was so much the only truth that people would get ready, dress up, take on the attitude of their clothes, go into the street, mingle luminous and turn themselves off again at home — she was understanding the city with sureness and ardor. She’d feel proud of not being Esmeralda. For an instant here and there she was looked at as if she’d have a great destiny. Suddenly at a glance she’d think: this man knows something about me! but what did she care really? for something existing didn’t need to be known — that was the feeling, her eyebrows furrowed and then a quick calm would follow hesitant after
