“But why? Why?”
Everything had grown difficult then, he’d come and was boring her. And since she didn’t know how to answer she made something up:
“Daniel and I can’t live here forever . . .”
Terrified her father heard this as if hearing a tree speak. And then in a strange and sudden understanding that scared her because she hadn’t understood a thing, he was filled with a rage that turned him red and tense, in an almost dangerous outrage.
“That’s a lie, fool! fool! fool!”
Since she looked at him surprised, her young face already shining without tears, he stared at her with furrowed brows, concluded more calmly shrugging almost with indifference:
“Fool.”
Daniel was a strange boy, sensitive and proud, hard to love. He didn’t know how to make an excuse for hiding. Even when he’d fall into fantasies these were cautious, familiar; he didn’t have the courage to make things up and she was always the one who with a surprising facility would lie for both of them; he was sincere and harsh, hating whatever he couldn’t see. With his clean and dry eyes he was living as if with Virgínia alone at the Farm. Ever since his sister was born he’d taken her and secretly she was his alone. When she was still very small, her long and dirty hair falling in her eyes, her short legs hesitating above her bare feet, she would grab with one of her hands the hem of Daniel’s pants and her brother, his face sunburned and without sweetness, his eyes sure of themselves, would climb the slopes of the mountains, with stubborn movements as if not feeling Virgínia’s weight, the resistant incline of the hills, the wind that was blowing firm and cold against his body. He didn’t even love her, but she was sweet and simple, easy to lead toward any idea. And even in the periods when he’d shut down severe and rude giving her orders, she’d obey because she felt him near her, paying attention to her — he was the most perfect creature she’d ever know. She would then spend days in a strange euphoria, like the wind, high, calm, and silent. My God, she didn’t even know that she was thinking, all she had was ardor, nothing more, not even a point. And he — all he had was fury, nothing more, not even a point. Despite everything Daniel would tread lightly, allow that unwieldy and watchful despair of his to live inside her, a sharp weakness, the possibility of perceiving with the nose, of foreseeing inside of silence, of living deeply without carrying out a movement. And of being shut inside a room while in danger. Yes, yes, little by little, softly, from her ignorance the idea was being born that she possessed a life. It was a feeling with neither fore- nor afterthoughts, sudden, complete, and united, which could neither be increased nor altered by age or wisdom. It wasn’t like living, living and then knowing that you possessed a life, but it was like looking and seeing all at once. The feeling didn’t come from facts present or past but from her own self like a movement. And if she died young or took the veil, the warning that she had a life was just as good as having lived a lot. That’s another reason she was a little tired perhaps, for as long as she could remember; sometimes only with an imperceptible effort did she manage to keep afloat. And above all else, she’d always been serious and false.
In the afternoon they put on clean clothes, wet and combed their hair and went with Father to the stationer’s. It was a good place to hang around, with a door and a window, almost dark and pleasant inside. They sold books, notebooks, saints, and religious medallions. For every birthday at Quiet Farm the present was a little medallion with a different saint, generally the one least sought after by the clientele of Upper Marsh. They also sold postcards with kissing lovers, angels and cupids, snowy landscapes. Esmeralda had brought one with a young man offering a flower to a girl who was thinking with a hand on her forehead, her elbow loose in space. The most popular items however were religious articles. The street where the stationer’s was rose narrowly and with effort to the Bom Jesus Church, with a white courtyard encircled by rusty fencing. People leaving church bought little medallions. Daniel and Virgínia, while they were waiting for their father, went into the church. It was squat and clean, dark; the exterior had been whitewashed. Inside the oil lamp was lit and a purplish and solitary stain was muffled in old carpets. “Pray for us,” they said quickly, peering at the small font of holy water and left hurriedly stepping without violence on the floor of damp tiles. A thunderclap was heard in the distance. It was already growing dark but Father’s store was full of men talking business. Virgínia and Daniel left again walking through the almost-dark streets; they’d look through the odd window someone had forgotten to close at the dusty interiors of the houses; the furniture, the bits of old and squat crockery seemed to be made of matter alive and expectant like trees. The tight streets went up
