The Chandelier

hard it would be to tell him and see in his face — ah she was guessing it — not surprise, disgust, yearning but that empty and delicate expression that he’d put on when he wanted to make his thoughts indecipherable. And there was also a cunning and extraordinarily feminine calculation — she was smiling almost voluptuous — in keeping the secret: a bit later he’d be bound to feel her absence, come look for her and Miguel would tell him . . . And then she’d show up! I like you, he’d said one day with a kind of stubbornness in his voice. She’d almost protested without strength: yes. I do, yes, he was repeating, you know, and his tone of voice kept going stubbornly as if he were fleeing something; his eyes absorbed and focused seemed to limit and not give in. Without knowing how to explain herself, the phrase almost offended her. Amidst her preparations she was stopping for an instant. Suddenly the journey was taking on a new meaning, she had very much wanted to go back to lay eyes on Quiet Farm . . . In a few instants her desire was growing acute almost with pain and she was feeling a laughing joy. Yes, to say see you later, mother, and go out into the fields, go out early into the wind, erase herself upon meeting the morning — that was what it meant to see Quiet Farm.

Thus arrived the day before the day set for the departure and she was supposed to see Vicente for the last time. She’d woken up very early in the morning, got up but couldn’t do anything, stayed thoughtful and calm. Sometimes a long trembling would awaken her, she’d look around without understanding. The clock struck ten. But the time wasn’t hurrying as it did on other occasions. Now everything was peaceful, clean, arranged. She barely ate lunch, serious and somber. In the afternoon however, when she was supposed go out, her strange state grew more marked, she scrutinized herself almost annoyed without understanding herself and in light of that vagueness difficult to surpass like a void and that was holding back her movements. So it was missing Vicente . . . the city . . . what? almost irritated she sat on the edge of the bed with her mind made up to understand herself harshly. A long, calm sadness seized her. So! so . . . what’s this? she wanted to say to herself congenially, slap her own face delicately and end up with a smile. She was however so far from having that strength as she was whenever she tried to grasp it. As if she kept pushing herself and creating in herself fake urgings to wake herself up, an afflicted and tired unease took over her body like a slow nausea, her nerves sharpening anxious, in vain. Fast and vacant thoughts, almost feverish were occurring to her and she was vacillating without making up her mind. What then? what was happening? it vaguely seemed to her that she was going to Upper Marsh forever and that made her happy scaring her. What then? she was asking herself somber and enraged. The confusion was taming her but suddenly awakening almost in a scream: I have to go . . . Vicente . . . She was turning to the window, looking at the distant clock: yes, she should tell Vicente that she was leaving, that she loved him, that was it! how could she not have known, my God, that was it! the thought however hurt her terribly, she understood that the confession would leave her weak and that she only could depart with the vigor of her own secret and if she didn’t have to confront Vicente’s face. And why leave? she could still tell her father that she couldn’t interrupt her studies now . . . yes, why not give it up? she was telling herself filled with a trapped and crazy joy, she’d always created intolerable states for herself, she herself, she herself . . . yet she could break them off, now she could . . . Some thing had however been mutely decided and she could never take it back. — When she’d head to the table at the Farm and was going down the stairs one by one inevitably, she’d wonder: if I wanted to with all my strength could I break off the descent, go up and lock myself in my room? and she knew it wasn’t possible, that it wasn’t possible, that it wasn’t possible step by step and there she was perplexedly seated at the table with everyone. Now motionless without making up her mind, she suddenly remembered that she could make coffee to get herself moving and then drink it. And then drink it, and then drink it! she thought abruptly alive. But she wasn’t even getting up. She held back tired of herself, distractedly nauseated by her hot life, by so many moist, slow gestures, by her benevolence, by pleasure and by shelter in suffering — severity and dryness were what she now would vaguely desire, terrified by so many feelings, but she wasn’t managing anything, limp and watchful. The thought of making coffee shook her again with more vigor, my God, that would be rebirth, to drink clear, black, hot, perfumed coffee — world, world, her body was saying smiling mutely in pain. With a certain timidity she was observing how she was by herself. She could cry from joy, yes, because by drinking coffee she’d have the strength for everything. She pressed her face to the cold bed and warm tears, warm and happy ran, slowly they were growing into sobs, now in little sad sobs she was crying feeling the cold bed warming up beneath her cheek. In a movement of abandonment she no longer wanted coffee as if the still unmade coffee had gone cold while she was crying. She was opening her eyes, her face crumpled and aged, her eyelashes divided in sheaves by the water and the brightness