“That sure took a long time, Virgínia!”
She replied in a delicate tone, almost flowery:
“You know how those buses are.”
Smiling. For what? then as if that were more than he could stand, almost the most understandable moment of the day, he sketched a gesture of loss and despair that at first vague immediately became conscious and excessive. And since she was looking at him with open eyes, he thought: but my God! really it was more than he could stand after that day and he could almost say it was setting off a kind of sob, not tears, by God, helping himself with the memory of his dead mother to whom he still felt so bound by a certain forgotten yearning, of the women he’d slept with gathered in a single exclamation, of that day when by working he’d kept busy and let himself stay alone, of the now renewed pleasure of waiting for the future, of his feeling for Virgínia, desperate, enraged, childish the way a man cries, Virgínia noticed. And right after the observation, suddenly stunned, she concluded: he was crying! Unable to come closer, unable to speak, she was looking at him. But what was happening? since everything was so good between them until now . . . they liked each other so much and suddenly . . . She was looking at him. He didn’t know where to turn, his face still disconcerted in the middle of the room, astonished with himself; if he were to interrupt the expression of pain he’d have to transform his physiognomy then and there while Virgínia would observe him silently; if he kept looking bitter he’d be in the middle of the room as if crying, as if naked; why hadn’t he leaned beforehand on a window or sat down hiding his face? but the strongest sensation of that moment was relief: if any woman besides Virgínia saw him in the middle of the room . . . for Virgínia, he was guessing, it was natural to cry and maybe that’s why, with rage at himself and at her, he’d given in to the easy opportunity. A certain peace came rising from some place in his body, maybe from his side; it was a peace with an onset of a good mood, of a light joy, he was feeling like laughing a little and joking about his own stupidity but didn’t know how to tack the laughter onto the previous movement and kept his contrite face on. Virgínia could speak:
“Vicente, what’s this all about?”
He detested her for a new, quick, and sparkling second; he saw all the defects of that pale face where the different eyes would always seem indecisive. But once again the warm and dark wave was rising through his chest and since Virgínia was moving a bit closer he clasped her hands and since she gave in, he pulled her close to him, made them both sit down. That still meant: darling, you took so long!, even without reaching out his arms. But there was something light and comical in that scene — he thought of it as if already telling it to someone, to Adriano, and getting from him the vivifying vacancy of his smile; but wondered whether that type of scene wouldn’t be depressing for himself. Right then, with furrowed eyebrows, he’d give quite a lot for an instant of true tragedy because that way he’d rid himself of the weight of that day. Clasping Virgínia’s hands, he realized that for some time he’d been feeling two pieces of cold and rigid flesh between his own hands and looking at her quickly saw a bright face, frigid, luminous and tense, with frozen lips. So he’d scared her that much? so everything really had been that serious? the discovery was worth a proud smile, interested. He immediately felt a more protective inclination than the “he finally exploded” one. But she, with a slight touch — a gesture of holding him back — in a subtle and sudden display of will, showed him that she was still wanting him to stay as he was. And he, surprised to be led exactly by Virgínia, thinking about somehow telling it to Adriano, Adriano who just then was seeming to him to be his hidden power and the only ardent connection in his life, surrendered, kept the same tone in his face, desperate, abandoned. At the same time he wasn’t pretending, on the contrary; something in him was still aching in expectation and his body was burning in a nice desire for nobility, for exaltation, yes, for exalted nobility.
“Why were you crying?” asked Virgínia and since just then she was moved she wasn’t trying to put it politely, she was vulgar and ferocious. The silence of the living room floated for a long while without alighting upon them.
“I don’t know,” he said.
“Yes, yes.”
He disguised a look of profound surprise.
“Yes . . . my little darling.”
He looked at her taken aback . . . Adriano would smile — but why did he see him smiling with sadness, which was impossible in Adriano? he looked at her taken aback . . . and there was nothing for it, the ache on his right side was lightly reborn, from that point he would start to leave, the room was brightening with the sea breeze, the salt air filling his lungs like a fisherman’s, the walls like erect mummies, unmoving image: he fell to his knees at Virgínia’s feet and mindful of the deep ache in his side and which nevertheless was hesitating to define itself, leaned his head on her legs, on her calm and warm thighs and was silently breathing and receiving back his breath mixed with Virgínia’s smell, with the smell of Virgínia’s white silk — Vera. But what was she understanding? he was still wondering almost amused; it was as if she wanted to surpass him, he who had no idea what was going on
