“Darling — darling, little green flower in the white guitar. Boy — boy, little green flower in the moonlight . . . in the moonlight . . . in the moonlight . . .”
“No,” Vicente was saying excited and speaking seriously — “what you should do to get it right is not think, exactly not think . . .” — He smiled — “You’re a little like the improvisers of serenades, you know?” — he was suddenly looking confused — “Adriano must like to know you have that gift.”
“Why?” she asked less cheerful.
“Well, he thinks you’re interesting. I think he really likes you,” he was answering almost exchanging a look with her about the oddity of the fact.
Yes, it was like a night of glory. She laughed quietly, soft, her eyes full of overwhelmed and dreamy moisture. Staring at her, Vicente felt his heart surrender, a sweet, warm, and suffocating foam enveloped him, his eyes were tamed, smiling. She was looking — he’d never been so beautiful. With a kind and simple voice he said blowing lightly on her face:
“I love you, girl.”
He’d hardly said it however, without transforming the power of his face and even trying to keep it in order to follow the new feeling with freedom, he realized imperceptibly that he didn’t love her, that he’d loved her maybe precisely before saying: I love you. Enraged with himself, he wanted to take back what he’d said while observing Virgínia’s face so frightened and translucent. Could that be the first time he’d said it? he wondered with surprise and reproach. He’d said too much, he’d said too much, he was thinking looking at her with fatigue and pity.
“Your hair’s falling in your face,” he said with a disguised rudeness. And that’s how he was saying again that it wasn’t love. But almost impatient he was feeling that it would be impossible now to rob her of the “I love you,” and she was smiling with a joy that was making her unlikable, such a bore.
“Let’s go out, take a stroll,” he said annihilated.
With a frightened movement she grabbed his hand saying: no, no . . . , because going out would make the day end. Without understanding her he looked straight at her, asked: why? Since she couldn’t explain, she smiled at him with a droll, extremely friendly and attractive look, lost. He can’t help laughing, she said with certain pride and surprise: what a woman . . . , and leaning over to kiss her hair felt the dizzying and serious perfume of her body, some thing that couldn’t be cheated, kissed her eyes that could hardly close so full were they of life; he leaned his face almost with sadness against that cheek fresh and bright like a gaze.
“Virgínia.”
Then, when she felt that she should go in a little while, the fuse was blown, the sea wind was puffing through the dark rooms . . . He lit candles while saying:
“You know, I have to translate this last page now because I broke off before you came: I was very tired. And I have to go out very early tomorrow.”
She’d been idle wandering around the living room that was seeming to fly with the wind. She was taking a close look at things while furrowing false eyebrows, touching them with delicate hands, living intimately. She smoothed with her fingers the curtain, her body was giving itself over to a vague movement accompanying the sigh of the sea, raising her arm and suddenly she felt her own shape cut out of the air. She was aware that if Vicente caught sight of her he’d have the same quiver. She looked at him but he was distracted. Another minute in the same lightly alive position and he might notice her . . . She realized however that stiffness was gradually substituting the grace of the pose, her own sensation aged and in a pensive and painless gesture she drew back her body to its own proportions. She abandoned the living room, crossed the winged bedroom, reached the glazed doors and looked at the street below. The sea couldn’t be seen except in a flash like a dark and profound movement — she trembled. It was raining, the street was shining black and sweet, the cars were running. An inspiration pierced her so sharp and sudden that she closed her eyes shaken, captured. Stumbling over the undefined furniture, breathing in that reserved darkness, she reached the door of the living room where he was working, his myopic eyes seeking the letters in the fickle twilight.
“Vicente,” she said smiling, anguished. “Let me sleep here.”
He lifted his head surprised and soon through the flame of the candle a smile was flickering.
“You want to?”
“Very much,” she asked laughing, her hoarse voice heavy with loveliness.
It had been such a happy night, the rooms were fluttering with the fragile flames of the candles. They had drunk a cup of milk and also a glass of clear and gentle wine. Then she’d changed clothes looking with intimate passion at the nightgown she’d leave with Vicente, while hearing him close the doors and walk in the kitchen, in the bathroom. Her face, after she’d taken off the dress, was reflected shining and blushing in the surprising light of the candle; her shoulders were being covered in red and dark shadows. Vicente was closing the front door checking the locks once more; there were thieves in the area, they’d come in even through front doors. The world was feeling big to her, throbbing and dark, so full of fear and expectant joy! while the parlor window was knocking dryly in the wind and Vicente was rushing to close it. Then they lay down together, serene; Vicente was pinching with his fingers the lit wick of the candle. Rain was breaking out again and the distant trams were singing on the tracks vanishing in distance and silence. He stroked her a little with attentiveness, said in
