Near to the Wild Heart Read online

  The latter had approached, had placed her slender hand, white as wax, yet strangely attractive, on her husband's shoulder. And Joana noted, so full of anguish that she could scarcely swallow, the delightful contrast between these two human beings. His hair still black, his huge body like that of an animal greater than man.

  — Would you like to have your dinner now? — his wife asked him.

  He played with the pencil between his fingers:

  — Yes, I'm leaving earlier. The woman smiled at Joana and slowly departed.

  Still insecure, Joana thought that the appearance of that creature made it clear that the teacher was a man while she herself was not yet what might be called a 'young lady'. He too must have noticed, dear God, he too must at least have noticed how hateful that white woman could be, knowing as she did how to destroy their previous conversation?

  — Are you giving a class tonight? — she asked uncertainly just for the sake of carrying on the conversation. And she blushed as she uttered those words, they were so blank, so out of place... Not in the tone of voice with which his wife had said, beautiful and serene: Would you like an early dinner?

  — Yes, I'm giving a class -he replied and fumbled through the papers on the table.

  Joana got up to go away and suddenly, even before she could perceive her own gesture, she sat down again. She lowered her head over the table and began to weep, covering her eyes. All around there was silence and she could hear the slow, muffled steps of someone inside the house. A long drawn-out minute passed before she felt something pressing gently on her head. It was a hand. His hand. She heard the hollow sound of her heart, she had stopped breathing. All she could think of was her own hair which now existed more than anything else, a great, nervous, thick mop of hair being fondled by those strange, animated fingers. His other hand raised her chin and she allowed herself to be examined, submissive and trembling.

  — What brought this on? — he asked, smiling. — Was it our conversation?

  She couldn't speak, she shook her head in denial.

  — What was it then? — he insisted in a firm voice.

  — It's just that I'm so ugly — she answered obediently, her voice barely audible.

  The teacher was startled. He opened his eyes wide, stared at her in amazement.

  — Now then — he tried to laugh it off — I had almost forgotten that I was speaking to a little girl... Who said you were ugly? — he laughed again. — Stand up.

  She got up, broken-hearted, conscious that her knees were as ashen and opaque as ever.

  — You're still on the thin side, I agree, but things will improve, don't you worry, he reassured her.

  She stared at him from behind those final tears. How could she explain to him? She didn't want to be consoled, he hadn't understood... The teacher met her stare with a frown. What's this? What's this? he asked himself with annoyance.

  She held her breath

  — I can wait.

  The teacher, too, did not breathe for several seconds. He asked, in a flat voice which suddenly sounded cold:

  — Wait for what?

  — Until I become pretty. Pretty like 'her'.

  He himself was to blame. That was his first thought, as if he had slapped his own face. He was to blame for having leaned too close over Joana, for having sought, yes, sought — don't escape, don't escape — thinking that it would go unpunished, her promise of youth, that fragile and ardent stem. And before he could restrain the thought — his hands clenched under the table, it came without mercy: the selfishness and crude hunger of old age was encroaching. Oh, how he loathed himself for having thought of this. 'Her', his wife, was the prettier? The 'other one' was also pretty. And also the 'other one' of this evening. But who possessed that shapeless body, those nervous legs, breasts still unformed? — the miracle: still unformed, he thought, feeling giddy, his vision blurred. Who was like clear, fresh water? The hunger of old age was encroaching. He cringed, terrified, furious, cowardly.

  His wife came back into the room. She had changed for the evening, her compact frame swathed in a blue, woollen dress. Her husband stared at her at length, with a vague, somewhat foolish expression on his face. She stared back at him, looking thoughtful and enigmatic with the merest trace of a smile lurking beneath the surface. Joana felt inhibited, became insignificant and dull before that radiant complexion. The shame of the scene that had taken place earlier came flooding back and left her feeling absurd.

  — I'm just going — she said.

  The wife — or was she mistaken? — the wife looked her straight in the eye, understanding, understanding! And then raised her head, her bright, steady eyes expressing triumph, perhaps even betraying a grain of sympathy:

  — When shall we see you again, Joana? you should come and have a chat with the teacher more often...

  With the teacher, she said, toying with intimacy, and she was white and smooth. Not miserable and not knowing about anything, not abandoned, not with dirty knees like Joana, like Joana! Joana got up and she knew that her skirt was too short, that her blouse was sticking to her tiny, underdeveloped breasts. She must escape, run to the beach, lie face down on the sands, hide her face, listen to the sound of the sea.

  She shook the woman's soft hand, shook his great paw, bigger than a man's hand.

  — Don't you want to take your book?

  Joana turned round and caught him. She caught his expression. Ah, discovery shone inside her, that look resembling a handshake, that look that knew she longed for the beach. But why so weak, so bereft of happiness? What had happened in the end? Only a few hours ago they were calling her a viper, the teacher fled, his wife waiting... What was happening? Everything was retreating... And suddenly the setting detached itself in her conscience with a screech, stood out in every detail, burying the characters under a huge wave... Her very feet were floating. The room where she had spent so many afternoons glowed in the crescendo of an orchestra, making no sound, taking revenge on her distraction. From one moment to the next, Joana discovered the unsuspected power of that quiet room. It was strange, silent, absent, as if they had never set foot there, as if it were some reminiscence. Things had preserved themselves until now and then drawn near to Joana, surrounding her, shining in the semi-darkness of twilight. Perplexed, she saw the naked statue standing on top of the gleaming display-cabinet, the lines gently faded as in the finale of a movement. The silence of those elegant, immobile chairs transmitted itself to her brain, draining it slowly... She heard quick footsteps out in the street, saw that tall, thoughtful woman staring at her as well as that stockily-built man, with bent shoulders. What did they expect of her? — she was frightened. She felt the hard cover of the book between her fingers, far, far away as if a great chasm were separating her from her own hands. What then? Why did every human being have something to say to her? Why, why? And what did they want of her, constantly sucking her dry? Vertigo, rapid as a whirlwind, took control of her head, causing her legs to wobble. She stood before them for several minutes, silent, absorbing the atmosphere of the house, but why were people not entirely surprised at her inexplicable attitude towards them? Ah, one could expect everything from her, the viper, even what appeared strange, the viper, ah the pain, the happiness that was paining her.

  The couple stood out from the shadows, motionless before her and only in the teacher's expression was there any hint of surprise.

  — I felt dizzy, she told them in a hushed voice and the display-cabinet continued to shine like an enshrined saint.

  She had barely spoken, her vision still clouded, when Joana sensed an almost imperceptible movement coming from the teacher's wife. They looked at each other and something mean, avid, and humiliated in the wife made the stupefied Joana begin to understand... It was her second attack of vertigo that day! Yes, it was her second attack of vertigo that day! Like the sounding of trumpets... She stared at them intently. I must get out of this house, she called out in her excitement. The room grew increasingly darker, and an
y moment now, she would arouse fury in this man and woman! Like an outburst of rain, like an outburst of rain...

  Her feet sank into the sand and when they emerged once more, they were leaden. It was already night, the sea tossed, dark and restless, its waves lashed against the shore. The wind had nestled in her hair and blew her short fringe in all directions. Joana no longer felt giddy, a rough arm now weighed on her bosom, a consoling weight. Something will come soon, she thought in haste. This was the second attack of vertigo on the same day! In the morning, when she jumped out of bed, and now... There is more and more life in me, she vaguely realized. She started to run. Suddenly she was freer, more enraged at everything, she felt triumphant. But it wasn't rage, it was love. A love so strong that it could only release its passion in a violent outburst of wrath. Now I am a viper all on my own. She remembered that she had left the teacher for good and that after their conversation she would never be able to return... She felt that he was far away, in that setting which she now remembered with horror and estrangement. All on her own...

  Her uncle and aunt were already sitting at the table. In which of them should she confide: I'm getting stronger every day, I'm growing up, am I about to become a young woman? She would confide neither in them nor anyone else. For she could not bring herself to ask of anyone: Tell me about things? Only to be told: I don't know either, just as the teacher had replied. She could see the teacher reappear before her as in those final moments, leaning towards her, terrified or ferocious, she couldn't say, but backing away, that's it, backing away. The reply, she felt, was not so important. What really mattered was that her question had been accepted, that it could exist. Her aunt would retort with surprise: what things? And should she begin to understand, she would almost certainly say: like this, and this, and this. With whom would Joana now speak of the things that exist as naturally as one speaks of those other things that simply are?

  Things that exist, others that simply are... She was surprised at this new and unexpected thought which would live from now onwards like flowers on a grave. That would live, that would live, other thoughts would be born and would live, and she herself was more alive. Wild happiness cut into her heart, lit up her body. She pressed the glass between her fingers, drank water with her eyes closed as if she were sipping wine, bloody and glorious wine, the blood of God. No, she would not tell anyone that everything was slowly changing... That she had put away her smile like someone who finally switches off the light and settles down to sleep. No human beings could now be permitted to enter her inner world and merge therein. Her relations with other people became increasingly different from the relations she maintained with herself. The sweetness of childhood disappeared without trace, no more water flowed from some inner fountain and what she offered the footsteps of passing strangers was parched, colourless sand. But she was walking onwards, ever onwards, as one walks along the shore, the wind caressing her face, blowing her hair back.

  How was she to tell them: this is the second attack of vertigo today, even though she desperately wanted to confide in someone? For no one else in her life, no one else would probably ever say to her like the teacher: one lives and one dies. Everyone was forgetting that all they wanted to do was to amuse themselves. She looked at them. Her aunt amused herself with the house, the cook, her husband, with her married daughter and visitors. Her uncle amused himself with his job, his farm, a game of chess, the newspapers. Joana tried to analyse them, thinking that in this way she could destroy them. Yes, they were fond of each other in a distant, familiar way. From time to time, absorbed in their games, they would glance at each other anxiously, as if to reassure themselves that they still existed. Only to resume that lukewarm distance between them which lessened when one of them went down with flu or had a birthday. They certainly slept in the same bed, Joana thought without satisfaction or malice.

  Her aunt held out the plate of bread in silence. Her uncle didn't so much as raise his eyes from his plate.

  Eating was a matter of great concern in that household, Joana continued. During meals, his arms resting firmly on the table, the man nourished himself as he gasped for breath because he suffered from heart trouble. As he chewed, with some crumb or morsel of food stuck to his mouth, he stared with a glazed expression at some object or other, his attention focused on the inner sensations produced by the food. Her aunt crossed her ankles under her chair. With puckered eyebrows, she ate with a curiosity which renewed itself with every mouthful, her face rejuvenated and mobile. But why were they not sitting back comfortably in their chairs today? Why were they taking so much care not to make a noise with their cutlery, as if someone were dead or asleep? It's because of me, Joana decided.

  Around the dark table, under the light weakened by the lamp's soiled fringes, silence, too, had settled that night. Now and then, Joana paused to listen to the sound of those two mouths chewing and to the quick, restless tick-tock of the clock. Then the woman lifted her eyes and rooted to the spot, with her fork in one hand, she waited, apprehensive and defeated. Joana averted her gaze. Triumphant, she lowered her head with a profound happiness that was inexplicably mingled with a sharp tightening in her throat, making it impossible to sob.

  — Has Armanda not come? — Joana's voice accelerated the tick-tock of the clock, provoked a sudden rapid movement at the table.

  Her uncle and aunt eyed each other furtively. Joana sighed aloud: was she afraid of her then?

  — Armanda's husband isn't on duty today, so she isn't coming to dinner, her aunt finally replied. And suddenly, as if satisfied, she began eating. Her uncle chewed more quickly. Silence returned without dissolving the distant murmur of the sea. So, they didn't have the courage.

  — When am I being sent to boarding-school? — Joana asked.

  The soup tureen slipped from her aunt's hands, the dark, cynical broth spread rapidly over the table. Her uncle rested his knife and fork on his plate, anguish written all over his face.

  — How do you know that... he stammered in confusion... She had been listening at the door...

  The drenched tablecloth gave off gentle fumes like the dying embers of a fire. Immobile and mesmerised as if she were confronting something beyond remedy, the woman stared at the spilled soup which was rapidly getting cold.

  The water, blind and deaf, but happily not mute, sparkling and bubbling as if splashed on the bright enamel of the bathtub. The bathroom was filled with warm vapours, the mirrors covered in steam, the naked body of a young girl reflected on the damp mosaic walls.

  The girl laughs softly, rejoicing in her own body. Her smooth, slender legs, her tiny breasts emerge from the water. She scarcely knows herself, still not fully grown, still almost a child. She stretches out one leg, looks at her foot from a distance, moves it tenderly, slowly, like a fragile wing. She lifts her arms above her head, stretches them out towards the ceiling lost in the shadows, her eyes closed, without any feeling, only movement. Her body stretches and spreads out, the moisture on her skin glistening in the semi-darkness — her body tracing a tense, quivering line. When she drops her arms once more, she becomes compact, white and secure. She chuckles to herself, moves her long neck from one side to another, tilts her head backwards -the grass is always fresh, someone is about to kiss her, soft, tiny rabbits snuggle up against each other with their eyes shut. — She starts laughing again, gentle murmurings like those of water. She strokes her waist, her hips, her life.

  She sinks into the bathtub as if it were the sea. A tepid world closes over her silently, quietly. Small bubbles slip away gently and vanish once they touch the enamel. The young girl feels the water weighing on her body, she pauses for a moment as if someone had tapped her lightly on the shoulder. Paying attention to what she is feeling, the invading tide. What has happened? She becomes a serious creature, with wide, deep eyes. She can scarcely breathe. What has happened? The open, silent eyes of things went on shining amidst the vapours. Over the same body that has divined happiness there is water — water. No, no... Why
? Creatures born into the world like water. She becomes restless, tries to escape. Everything — she says slowly as if handing over something, as if probing herself without understanding. Everything. And that word is peace, solemn and enigmatic, like some ritual. The water covers her body. But what has happened? She murmurs in a low voice, she utters syllables that are lukewarm and jumbled.

  The bathroom is hazy, almbst extinct. The objects and walls have caved in, melt and dissolve into fumes. The water feels a little cooler on her skin and she trembles with fear and discomfort.

  When she emerges from the bathtub she is a stranger who doesn't know what she should feel. Around her there is nothing and she knows nothing. She is weak and sad, she moves slowly, unhurried, for some considerable time. The cold runs down her back with icy feet but she is in no mood to play, she huddles up, wounded and unhappy. She dries herself without love, humiliated and miserable, wraps herself in the dressing-gown as in a warm embrace. Shut up in herself, unwilling to look, ah, unwilling to look, she slips through the passageway — that long throat, crimson, dark, and discreet-sinking down into the belly, into everything. Everything, everything, she repeats mysteriously. She closes the window in the room — reluctant to see, hear or feel anything. In the silent bed, floating in the darkness, she curls up as if she were in the last womb and forgets. Everything is vague, uncertain and silent.

  Lined up behind her were the dormitory beds from the boarding-school. And in front, the window opened onto the night.

  I've discovered a miracle in the rain — Joana thought — a miracle splintered into dense, solemn, glittering stars, like a suspended warning: like a lighthouse. What are they trying to tell me? In those stars I can foretell the secret, their brilliance is the impassive mystery I can hear flowing inside me, weeping at length in tones of romantic despair. Dear God, at least bring me into contact with them, satisfy my longing to kiss them. To feel their light on my lips, to feel it glow inside my body, leaving it shining and transparent, fresh and moist like the minutes that come before dawn. Why do these strange longings possess me? Raindrops and stars, this dense and chilling fusion has roused me, opened the gates of my green and sombre forest, of this forest smelling of an abyss where water flows. And harnessed it to night. Here, beside the window, the atmosphere is more tranquil. Stars, stars, zero. The word cracks between my teeth into fragile splinters. Because no rain falls inside me, I wish to be a star. Purify me a little and I shall acquire the dimensions of those beings who take refuge behind the rain.