She opened her heavy eyelids an instant — the brightest breeze was starting off the dawn, weak and luminous sounds were spreading afar while the room was still keeping a nocturnal, warm silence — she closed her eyelids.
Then she opened her eyes in a start — great clouds of brightness were approaching, after the night of rain a hard and aroused cold was arriving, the air shining fresh, damp, and full of sounds . . . Still unconscious she was getting frightened, the day frightening her — her eyes open . . . Then the idea sliced her in a wail: begin the farewell, the farewell! it was tonight! the journey! She looked to the side: with an almost ridiculous and victorious surprise Vicente wasn’t there, the tangled sheets, the dent in the pillow . . . The nightgown slipping from her shoulder, sitting on the bed, and that cheerful breeze blowing her hair, making her skin shiver — she was coming to a halt breathless. Vicente wasn’t there, she got up quickly, crossed the dry and cold floor with bare feet, the wide nightgown undone at the pleats that had been carefully invented in order to please. On the little table in the living room she saw Vicente’s note; Virgínia: I had to leave early to turn in the assignment, sweetheart, we’ll certainly talk tomorrow, I’m working all day today, be sure to come tomorrow, sweetheart did you sleep well? your Vicente, Vicente, Vicente. She dressed quickly with large mute eyes, stopping to say anguished, deeply surprised and rushed: arrrh!, full of pain, combing her hair, leaving through the back door locking it, tossing the key onto the doorstep. She didn’t wait for the elevator, went down the stairs quickly, found herself on the street. The light of day was invading her eyes, the morning smell of the sea, of gasoline, she was hunched over as she walked, almost running but her body was making her uncomfortable loaded down with the days she’d already lived — she’d looked to the side and Vicente had left while she was sleeping — she was almost running with difficulty suddenly pressing her mouth with one of her hands. So, so wounded . . . her chest dilated, burned, empty, the air was scratching her eyes and she was hurrying down the street protecting herself as if walking against wind and storm, her widened gaze; she was going on but stopped short with her hand on her breast, the hat! oh my hat! she’d forgotten it . . . and that stabbed her with brutality . . . she was opening her mouth aghast, squeezing her bust with her fingers: my hat. The feeling of the structure of her body like a fragile and electric limit containing nothing more than air, wild and tense air; only wounded, her body pushed a ways back pale and boundless — so that’s how she’d return to the Farm! suddenly that was the truth, the only one after awaking and not finding Vicente! tricked, not finding Vicente, having overslept! and my hat?! . . . She’d lost it forever. With her body heavy once again almost running, almost crying she took the taxi wondering if spending like that she’d have enough money for the journey, sinking in the smoothness of the car, speaking muffled and dark to the driver who was smiling kindly with a thin face, freshly shaven, skin taut and happy, ready to begin his day. He pressed the accelerator with his foot, a hot sound filled the vehicle, he pursed his lips with firmness thinking vaguely how he could make a good living making the car neigh in preparation for a fare, then earning money, keeping it safe in his pocket, opening the door to let the passenger out, putting back up the sign acquired at City Hall: Free. Yes, Free, Free, Free. He closed his lips furrowing eyebrows full of responsibility and severity while honking the horn, looking at the traffic light and thinking with a certain benevolence, feeling the car seat already warm and familiar in a promise of a full day, of a nice interruption for a nice lunch, of lots of fares through which places?: this first passenger was friendly.
She’d take the night train that would leave around six in the afternoon. And this day that was preparing her departure, she went through it with calm eyes, dry and surprised, flung into the empty time that was the unknown future. What would come? what if Vicente showed up? the journey, waking up at dawn already in the train . . . and maybe never again to smell the quiet odor of the morning awakening with dust in the city: how violated she’d be. Each gesture she attempted to express that luminous opening that was squeezing itself in her chest, each gesture in that direction was wearing itself out without involving for so much as an instant the true meaning of her pain. It was pain that dry thing suddenly
