Near to the Wild Heart Page 2

  Why was she so ardent and light, like the air that comes from the stove when it's uncovered?

  The day had been like any other, which might explain this upsurge of life. She had woken up filled with the light of day, inundated. Still in bed, she had thought about sand, the sea, the time she drank sea-water at her aunt's house before the old woman died, about feeling, especially about feeling. Lying there, she waited for several moments and since nothing happened she lived an ordinary day. She had not yet freed herself from the desire-power-miracle that had been with her since childhood. The formula had succeeded so many times: to feel the thing without possessing it. All it required was that everything should come to its assistance, leave it light and pure, in a state of fasting in order to receive imagination. As difficult as flying and, without anywhere to support one's feet, to receive something extremely precious in one's arms, a child for example. Even so, only at a certain point in the game did she lose the feeling that she was telling lies — and she was afraid of not being present in all her thoughts. She loved the sea and could feel the bed-sheets covering her. The day advanced and left her behind, alone.

  Still lying in bed, she had remained silent, almost without thinking, as sometimes happened. She superficially observed the house filled with sunshine at that hour, the window-panes high and shining as if they were light itself. Otávio had gone out. There was no one in the house. And no one inside her so that she was able to have thoughts as detached from reality as she pleased. If I were to see myself there in the land of the stars, I would remain only for myself. It was not night-time, there were no stars, impossible to see oneself from such a distance. Distracted, she suddenly remembered someone — large teeth with great gaps, eyes without lashes — saying, with every confidence of being original, yet sincere: my life is tremendously nocturnal. Having spoken, this person remained still, quiet, like an ox at night; from time to time the head moved in a gesture without meaning or purpose only to go back to being engulfed in stupidity. Filling the entire world with fear. Ah, yes, the man belonged to her childhood and connected with his memory there was a moist bunch of enormous violets, trembling with luxuriance... Now fully awake, should she so desire, Joana could relax a little, and relive her entire childhood... The brief period spent with her father, the removal to her aunt's house, the teacher instructing her how to live, puberty, surfacing mysteriously, boarding school... her marriage to Otávio... But all this was much briefer, a simple look of surprise could exhaust all these facts.

  Yes, she had a touch of fever. If sin existed, she had sinned. Her whole life had been a mistake, she felt useless. Where was the woman with the voice? Where were the women who were merely female? And the continuation of what she had initiated as a child? She had a touch of fever. The outcome of those days when she had wandered to and fro, renouncing and loving the same things a thousand times over. The outcome of those nights, lived in darkness and silence, tiny stars twinkling on high. The girl stretched out on the bed, her eye vigilant in the waning light. The whitish bed swimming in the darkness. Weariness creeping inside her body, lucidity fleeing the dusk. Tattered dreams, awakening visions. Otávio alive in the other room. And suddenly all the weariness of waiting concentrating itself in one nervous, rapid movement of her body, the muffled cry. Then coldness, and sleep.

  ... One Day...

  One day her father's friend arrived from afar and embraced him. When they sat down to dinner, Joana, bewildered and contrite, saw a naked, yellow chicken lying on the table. Her father and the man were drinking wine and the man kept saying from time to time:

  — I just can't believe you've got yourself a daughter...

  Turning to Joana with a smile, her father said:

  — I bought her in the shop on the corner...

  Her father was happy, yet continued to look thoughtful as he kneaded his bread into tiny balls. From time to time, he would swallow a mouthful of wine. The man turned to Joana and asked her:

  — Did you know that the pig goes grunt-grunt-grunt?

  Her father interrupted:

  — You're really good at that, Alfredo... The man was called Alfredo.

  — Can't you see, her father continued, that the child is no longer at an age to be playing at being a pig...

  They both laughed and Joana joined in. Her father gave her another chicken wing and she went on eating without any bread.

  — How does it feel to have a little daughter? the man asked, still chewing.

  Her father wiped his mouth with his napkin, leaned his head sideways and replied smiling:

  — At times it's like holding a warm egg in my hand. Sometimes I feel nothing: a total loss of memory. Now and then, I'm aware of having a child of my own, my very own.

  — Missie, missie, bissie, lissie... the man sang, looking towards Joana. What are you going to be when you grow up and become a young lady and all the rest of it?

  — As for all the rest of it, she doesn't have the faintest idea, my dear fellow, her father declared, but if she won't get annoyed with me, I'll tell you what she wants to be. She has told me that when she grows up she's going to be a hero...

  The man laughed, and laughed, and laughed. Suddenly he stopped, held Joana by the chin and as long as he remained there holding it, she couldn't chew her food:

  — Surely you're not going to cry because your daddy has told me your secret, little one?

  Then they began to discuss things that must have happened before she was born. At times, they were not even the kind of thing that happens, but just words — also before she was born. A thousand times she would have preferred there to be rain because it would be so much easier to sleep without being frightened of the dark. The two men went to get their hats before going out; then she got up and tugged at her father's jacket:

  — Stay a little longer...

  The two men looked at each other and for a second she couldn't be certain whether they would stay or go. But when her father and his friend put on a serious expression then laughed together, she knew that they would stay. At least until she was sleepy enough not to lie down without hearing rain, without hearing people, or to be thinking of the rest of the house, dark, empty and silent. They sat down and smoked. The light began to twinkle in her eyes and next day, as soon as she awakened, she would go and visit the neighbour's backyard and take a look at the chickens because today she had eaten roast chicken.

  — I couldn't forget her, her father was saying. Not that I spent all my time thinking of her. Now and then a thought, like some memory to muse upon much later. Later it came, but I was unable to give it serious consideration. There was only that slight pang, without any pain, an ah! barely outlined, a moment of reflection and then gone from my mind. She was called... he glanced at Joana — she was called Elza. I even remember saying to her: the name Elza makes me think of an empty sack. She was slender, disdainful — you know what I mean don't you? — intimidating. So quick and harsh in making judgements, so independent and embittered that from our very first meeting I accused her of being shrewish. Would you believe it... She burst out laughing, then became solemn. At that time, I found myself imagining what she would do at night. For I didn't believe it possible that she would sleep. No, she was never one to surrender. And even that sallow complexion — fortunately the child has not inherited it — did not look quite right with a nightdress ... She would spend the night in prayer, her eyes fixed on the dark sky, keeping vigil for someone. My memory was bad, I couldn't even remember why I had called her a shrew. But my memory was not so bad that I could forget her. I could still see her striding along the beach, her expression sullen and remote. The oddest thing of all, Alfredo, is that there couldn't have been any beach. Yet that vision persisted and defied any explanation.

  The man was smoking and reclining in his chair. Joana was scoring the red hide on the armchair with her nail.

  — I woke up early one morning with a fever. I can almost still feel my tongue inside my mouth, hot, dry, as rough as a rag. You know
how I hate suffering, I'd rather sell my soul. Then I found myself thinking about her. Incredible. I was already thirty-two, unless I'm mistaken. I'd met her briefly at the age of twenty. And in a moment of anguish, from among so many friends — even you, for I didn't know where you were — at that moment I thought of her. She was the devil...

  His friend laughed:

  — Yes, she is the devil...

  — You can't imagine what she was like: I never saw anyone with so much hatred for others, but real hatred and contempt as well. And to be so good at the same time... dry but good. Or am I wrong? I am the one who did not like that kind of goodness: almost as if she were making a fool of me. However I got used to it. She didn't need me. Nor I her, to be honest. But we lived together. What I should still like to know, would give anything to know, is what was on her mind all the time. You would find me, as you now see me and know me, the greatest fool compared to her. So you can imagine the impression she made on the few miserable relatives I possess: it was as if I had brought into their rosy and ample bosom — do you remember, Alfredo? — they both laughed — it was as if I had brought in some contagious virus, a heretic, I don't know what... Who can tell? But even I prefer that this little one shouldn't take after her. Or after me, for God's sake — Fortunately, I have the impression that Joana will go her own way...

  — And then? the man rejoined.

  — Then... nothing. She died as soon as possible.

  Later the man said:

  — Look, your daughter is almost asleep... The kindest thing would be to put her to bed.

  But she was not sleeping. She only had to half-close her eyes, and let her head droop to one side, and it was almost as good as if it were raining, with everything gently merging. So that when she finally got into bed and pulled the sheet over her she would be more accustomed to sleep, wouldn't feel the darkness weighing on her bosom. Especially now that she was frightened of Elza. But one cannot be frightened of one's own mother. A mother was like a father. As her father carried her along the passageway to the bedroom, she leaned her head against him and caught the heavy odour that came from his arms. She said without speaking: no, no, no... In order to cheer herself up she thought: tomorrow, first thing tomorrow I'm going to see the live chickens.

  The last rays of sunlight flickered on the green branches outside. The pigeons pecked at the loose earth. From time to time, the schoolroom was invaded by the breeze and the silence coming from the playground. Then everything became lighter, the teacher's voice fluttered like a white flag.

  — And he and his loved ones lived happily ever after — Pause — the trees stirred in the yard, it was a summer's day. — Write a summary of this story for our next lesson. Still absorbed in the story, the children slowly dispersed, their eyes vacant, their mouths wearing a smile of satisfaction.

  — What do you get when you're happy? her voice was as clear and sharp as an arrow. The teacher looked at Joana.

  — Can you repeat the question... ?

  Silence. The teacher smiled, arranging her books.

  — Ask me once more, Joana, I didn't hear you the first time.

  — I wanted to know: when you're happy what happens? What comes afterwards? — the girl repeated stubbornly.

  The woman looked at her in surprise.

  — What an idea! I don't know what you're talking about, what an idea! Ask me the same question with different words...

  — To be happy is to get what?

  The teacher turned crimson — you could never tell why she turned crimson. She marked the register and dismissed the class for recreation.

  The porter came to summon the girl to the office. The teacher was waiting there:

  — Sit down... Have you been playing?

  — Just a little...

  — What do you want to be when you grow up?

  — I don't know.

  — Well, listen, I've also had an idea — she reddened.

  — Take a piece of paper, write down the question you asked me today and hold on to it. When you grow up, read it again. — She looked at her. — Who knows? Perhaps one day, you yourself will be able to reply somehow... — She lost her serious expression, turned crimson — Or perhaps this isn't important and, at least, you will enjoy yourself with...

  — No.

  — No what? — the teacher asked in surprise.

  — I don't like enjoying myself, Joana said proudly. The teacher had turned crimson again:

  — Very well, off you go and play.

  As Joana made a dash for the door, the teacher called her back, by now flushed to the neck, her eyes lowered, rummaging through the papers on her desk:

  — Don't you find it strange... odd that I should ask you to write down a question and hold on to it?

  — No, she replied.

  And returned to the playground.

  Joana Takes a Stroll

  I find it so relaxing, Joana explained to Otávio.

  Just as the space surrounded by four walls has a specific utility, created not so much by its being space, as by the fact that it is surrounded by walls. Otávio transformed her into something that was not her but Otávio himself and which Joana received out of pity for both of them because both were incapable of freeing themselves through love. Also because she submissively accepted her own fear of suffering, her inability to conduct herself beyond the frontier of revolt. Besides: how was she to tie herself to a man without permitting him to imprison her? How was she to prevent him from enclosing her body and soul within his four walls? And was there some means of acquiring things without those things possessing her?

  The evening was naked and transparent, without beginning or end. Birds, agile and black, darted sharply through the pure air, they flew so swiftly that no human eye could accompany their flight. In the far distance, the mountain hovered, massive and dense. There were two ways of looking at it: first, by imagining that it was remote and huge; second by imagining that it was small and within reach. But in any event, a stupid mountain, brown and solid. How she loathed nature at times. Without knowing why, it struck her that this last reflection, associated with the mountain, concluded something, and banging on the table with the palm of her hand, she thought: That's it! That grey and greenish thing extended inside Joana like a recumbent body, thin and harsh, right inside her, completely dry, like a smile without saliva, like strained eyes in need of sleep, that thing affirmed itself before the impassive mountain. What she could not grasp with her hand was now glorious, elevated and free, and it was hopeless to try and summarize it: pure air, a summer's evening. For there was certainly more than this. A hollow victory over the lush trees, the aimless existence of all things. Oh, God. This, yes, this: were God to exist, surely He would abandon that world immediately, too clean by far, like a house on a Saturday, quiet, not a speck of dust anywhere, smelling of soap. Joana smiled. Why did a house that had been polished and cleaned leave her feeling lost as if she were in a monastery, disconsolate, wandering through corridors? And there were many other things she observed. If she applied ice to her liver, she was pervaded by remote, sharp sensations, by luminous, fleeting ideas, and if she were then to speak, she would say, sublime, with outstretched hands, perhaps with her eyes closed:

  — Then I find it so relaxing, she repeated. She felt like a withered branch, stuck in mid-air. Brittle, covered with peeling bark. Perhaps she might be thirsty, but there was no water nearby. And above all, the suffocating certainty that if a man were to embrace her at that moment she would not feel a gentle sweetness in her nerves, but lemon-juice causing her to smart, her body like wood near the fire, warped, split, desiccated. She could not reassure herself by saying: this is just an interval, life will come afterwards like a tidal wave of blood, washing me, dampening the scorched wood. She could not deceive herself because she knew that she was also living and that those moments were the climax of something awkward, of a painful experience for which she should be grateful: almost as if she were experiencing time outside herself, q
uietly withdrawing.

  — I've noticed that you like walking, Otávio remarked, gathering a twig. — Besides, you liked going for a stroll even before we married.

  — Yes, that's quite true, she replied.