Maria Cláudia did not share her mother’s scruples about their downstairs neighbor; on the contrary, she really liked Dona Lídia. Before ringing the doorbell, she straightened the collar of her housecoat and smoothed her hair. She regretted not having applied a touch of color to her lips.
The bell rang out stridently and echoed down the stairwell. Maria Cláudia felt a slight noise behind her and was sure that Justina was peering through the spyhole in the door opposite. She was just about to turn and look when Dona Lídia’s door opened.
“Good morning, Dona Lídia.”
“Good morning, Claudinha. What brings you here? Won’t you come in?”
“If I may . . .”
In the dark corridor, Maria Cláudia felt the warm, perfumed air wrap about her.
“So what can I do for you?”
“I’m sorry to bother you again, Dona Lídia.”
“You’re not bothering me at all. You know how much I enjoy your visits.”
“Thank you. I wondered if I could phone the office to tell them I won’t be coming in today.”
“Of course, feel free, Claudinha.”
She gently ushered her toward the bedroom, a room that Maria Cláudia could not enter without feeling slightly troubled, for the atmosphere made her positively dizzy. She had never seen such lovely furnishings; there were mirrors and curtains, a red sofa and a soft rug on the floor, bottles of perfume on the dressing table, the smell of expensive cigarettes, but none of those things alone could explain her disorderly feelings. Perhaps it was the whole situation, the presence of Lídia herself, something as vague and imponderable as a burning, corrosive gas that slips unnoticed through every filter. In that room, she always felt as if she somehow lost all self-control. She became as tipsy as if she had drunk champagne and felt an irresistible desire to do something silly.
“There’s the phone,” said Lídia. “I’ll leave you in peace.”
She made as if to go, but Maria Cláudia said urgently:
“No, no, really, Dona Lídia, there’s no need. It’s not a matter of any importance . . .”
The intonation she gave to these words and the smile that accompanied them seemed to suggest that there were other matters of importance and that Dona Lídia knew precisely what those were. Seeing Maria Cláudia still standing, Lídia exclaimed:
“Why don’t you sit down on the bed, Cláudia?”
Legs trembling, Maria Cláudia did as she was told. She placed one hand on the blue satin eiderdown and, unaware of what she was doing, began to stroke the soft fabric almost voluptuously. Lídia appeared not to notice. She opened a pack of Camel cigarettes and lit one. She did not smoke out of habit or necessity, but because the cigarette formed part of a complicated web of attitudes, words and gestures, all of which had the same objective: to impress. This had become so much second nature to her that, regardless of whom she was with, she always tried to impress. The cigarette, the slow striking of the match, the first long, dreamy outbreath of smoke, were all part of the game.
With many gestures and exclamations, Maria Cláudia was explaining over the phone that she had the most terrible headache. She pouted tragically, as if she really were seriously ill. Lídia observed this performance out of the corner of her eye. Finally, Maria Cláudia put down the phone and got to her feet.
“Right. Thank you very much, Dona Lídia.”
“There’s no need to thank me. You know I’m always glad to help.”
“May I give you the five tostões for the phone call?”
“Don’t be silly. Keep your money. When are you going to stop trying to pay me for using the phone?”
They both smiled and looked at each other, and Maria Cláudia felt afraid, even though there was no reason to, certainly not such intense, physical fear, but she had suddenly become aware of a frightening presence in the room. Perhaps the atmosphere that had initially made her merely dizzy had all at once become suffocating.
“I’d better be going. Anyway, thank you again.”
“Won’t you stay a little?”
“No, I have things to do, and my mother’s waiting for me.”
“I won’t keep you, then.”
Lídia was wearing a stiff, red taffeta dressing gown, which had the iridescent gleam one sees on the wing cases of certain beetles, and she left behind her a trail of strong perfume. The rustle of taffeta and, above all, the warm, intoxicating smell given off by Lídia—an aroma that came not just from her perfume, but from her body—made Maria Cláudia feel as if she were about to lose control completely.
When Maria Cláudia left, having thanked Lídia yet again, Lídia went back into the bedroom. Her cigarette was slowly burning down in the ashtray. She stubbed it out, then lay full-length on the bed. She clasped her hands behind her neck and made herself comfortable on the same soft eiderdown that Maria Cláudia had been stroking. The telephone rang. With a lazy gesture she picked up the receiver.
“Hello . . . Yes, speaking . . . Oh, hello. (. . .) Yes, I do. What’s on the menu today? (. . .) Yes, go on. (. . .) No, not that. (. . .) Hm, all right. (. . .) And what is the fruit today? (. . .) No, I don’t like that. (. . .) It really doesn’t matter. It’s just that I don’t like it. (. . .) All right. (. . .) Good. Don’t be too late. (. . .) And don’t forget to send the monthly bill. (. . .) Goodbye.”
She put the phone down and again fell back onto the bed. She yawned widely, with the ease of someone who knows no one is watching, a yawn that revealed the absence of one of her back teeth.
Lídia was not pretty. Analyzed feature by feature, her face could not be categorized as either beautiful or ordinary. She was at a disadvantage just now because she had no makeup on. Her face was shiny with night cream and her eyebrows needed plucking at the ends. No, Lídia was not pretty, and there was, too, the important fact that she had already passed her thirty-second birthday
