“When I’d go to Upper Marsh . . . ,” she was saying . . .
Because for fifteen days her husband had driven her every day in the buggy to town until her new dentures were ready. It had even been necessary to sew in a hurry a blue linen dress with several rows of buttons. All she’d have to do was run her tongue across her teeth and the small, calm town would come back to her in a disturbance that would make her blink, her tongue forgotten on her upper teeth, her lip curled. It had become a habit to seek her teeth for a quick contact. And by now the caress would be unwittingly followed by an irresistible tic that no longer seemed to bring her the clear memory of Upper Marsh but just a certain rushed and anguished taste, a muttering of approval. Looking at her Virgínia would feel clenched and disgusted wondering how that woman could still live; and how the form of love that her mother now felt was made of gluttony, of total surrender, gasping fatigue, and hope, by God, hope. Her own thoughts were frightening her, Virgínia was stifling her body, turning her head to the side as if diverting it from herself. She was regarding them fixedly but kept making them out as at the moment of jumping from the train: faces slightly twisted and unfamiliar as if she were seeing them in a mirror. On the Farm now a simple truth was being breathed, almost wholesome and airy. In each bedroom would a different color light up as soon as the doors were closed? In the clean and bright lives into which no moist angel would ever slide, the miracle had dried into stalks of fragile grasses in the wind — where, where was whatever she had lived? Quiet Farm had lost any cloister-like characteristics. Only for an instant was she picking up in the air that old vibration, that shaky life of the things in the mansion that she’d known so well to hear when she was small. The Farm had risen to the surface in her absence and was shining in the sun; its inhabitants seemed resuscitated but, without awareness of their own death, were going along calmly upon the flat ground. What had happened? she was feeling there each thing free of her presence and her touch — in a revolt life was refusing to repeat itself and to be subjugated. Now the house was useful enough for her big and timid body — she was observing with slight bitterness in a smile that wanted to mean lived experience but that was just sad and pensive. Even in the park of Upper Marsh — she stopped short clasping the shawl she’d started wearing again — the fountain had stopped underneath the little statue of the naked boy and without the shine of the water the child god had vanished. A living child was playing in the dry fountain. The yellow dress. Two new hotels had set up in the center, some lads and girls crossed the streets with whips and riding clothes, observing.
Esmeralda’s clothes had the same pleasant smell of freshness and salt. That’s how she’d dress up, take care of herself and burn perfumes in her room — and her preparation was so active that time would pile up while she thought she was living minutes. She’d wear feminine clothes with voluptuousness; her breasts would hide like jewels among frills and pleats, her thick pale legs sprouting from long skirts. She’d look with surprise at Virgínia’s nude dresses, smooth silks, and short hair.
“You didn’t learn much in the city, Virgínia,” she’d tell her.
With age she seemed to have rushed into her true body and Virgínia could imagine how men might want her. Vicente, yes, Vicente would turn around to look at her with attention, unaware that his face was suddenly becoming masculine and hard . . . — she’d come across that expression in him so many times on the street. So why hadn’t Esmeralda married anyway? she was shrugging with indifference. The round face on top was coming together in a deliciously feminine point, almost repugnant to another woman, so attractive it was and so destined for men alone. And she had still other marks. A tiny mouth, arched and hard, almost in her chin like an unused toy, a pale always lively mouth, slightly protruding eyes, black. Some thing about her inspired the desire to walk all over her and abuse her even without rage. Around her eyes fine wrinkles, skin of a fearful color despite being matured and almost cooked. And that power pulsating with a haughtiness of a unique woman. Daniel did almost nothing, letting their father take care of the store. Sunburned, he went hunting, swimming in the river, had earned strong and shining muscles, living with ferocity and calm off his own body. She would look at him from afar; how to get closer? With sloth and fatigue she’d say little useless things to him, they’d barely run into each other. He didn’t seem to miss Rute, nobody ever mentioned her, actually. Yet in four months she’d return to spend six months with Daniel. Virgínia managed a few moments with her brother; they went to the balcony, leaned against it silent, distant.
“Daniel,” she said.
She
