An Apprenticeship or the Book of Pleasures Page 7

  It was this time, walking over to the bar and before he saw her, this time after days of pain unlocking, that when she saw him seated with a glass of whiskey — unexpectedly the vision of the two of them, still in the distance, unleashed in her a happy and terrible human greatness, his greatness and hers. She stopped for an instant, stunned. She looked afraid to be advancing inside herself maybe too fast and with all the risks — toward what?

  In that instant he spotted her and with his unaffected gallantry rose to greet her. That meant Lóri had to approach while he gazed at her, which was still hard because she hadn’t fully recovered either from going into the sea or from the sight of Ulisses beside the pool, she mixed both sensations into a single shy victory.

  And as she was moving toward him, slowly, hesitantly as always, she saw that what she’d seen in Ulisses and had lit her up with its brightness in the middle of the pool was still there, though now mild enough to let her think that Ulisses — though he couldn’t be called levelheaded because of the liberty that in him took the appearance of daring originality — Ulisses was a spartan man, free even of the sin of being a romantic.

  When she finally reached his table — they never shook hands — Lóri had already though barely consciously started to feel proud of Ulisses as if he were hers, and this was new. In a way he was, because as soon as Lóri could transform herself he’d be hers, she imagined despite her doubts. What she was afraid of was one of Ulisses’s qualities: his frankness. She was afraid that, if she advanced to the point of being readier and came to accept drawing close to him, he with his frankness might simply tell her it was too late. Because even fruits have seasons.

  They sat down. And her earlier shyness had overtaken her at the thought of telling him about that serious moment of entering the sea. Since it had been more of a ritual than . . . than what?

  — I, she said but then fell silent: she was too moved to speak.

  — Yes? Ulisses encouraged her, leaning forward because he’d sensed that she had something important to say.

  Then, as if throwing herself without a second thought into an abyss, Lóri said:

  — One day at dawn I went to the sea on my own, there was nobody on the beach, I went into the water, there was just one black dog but far away from me!

  He looked at her carefully, at first as if he hadn’t understood what uncommon meaning there could be in that emotional declaration. At last as if he’d understood, he asked slowly:

  — Did you enjoy it?

  — I did, she replied humbly, and out of shame her eyes filled with tears that wouldn’t fall, they just made her eyes look like two full pools. No, she then corrected herself, looking for the exact term, it’s not that I enjoyed it. It’s something else.

  — Better or worse than enjoying?

  — It was so different that I can’t compare them.

  He looked at her closely for a moment:

  — I know, he then said.

  And added simply:

  — I love you.

  She looked at him with darkened eyes but her lips trembled. They sat silently for a moment.

  — Your eyes, he said changing his tone entirely, are bewildered but your mouth has that inner passion you fear. Your face, Lóri, is a mystery like the sphinx’s: decipher me or I’ll devour you.

  She was surprised that he too had noticed what she’d seen of herself in the mirror.

  — My mystery is simple: I don’t know how to be alive.

  — Because you only know, or only knew, how to be alive through pain.

  — That’s right.

  — And don’t you know how to be alive through pleasure?

  — I almost do. That’s what I was trying to tell you.

  There was a long pause between them. Now Ulisses was the one who seemed moved. He called the waiter over, asked for another whiskey. After the waiter left, he said in a tone of voice as if he’d changed the subject and yet the subject was the same:

  — Well, I had to pay my debt of joy to a world that was so often hostile to me.

  — Living, she said in that incongruous dialogue in which they seemed to understand each other, living is so out of the ordinary that I’m only alive because I was born. I know that anyone could say the same, but the fact is I’m the one saying it.

  — You still haven’t got used to living? Ulisses asked with intense curiosity.

  — No.

  — Then that’s perfect. You’re the right woman for me. Because in my apprenticeship I’m missing someone to say obvious things in such an extraordinary way. Obvious things, Lóri, are the hardest truths to see — and to keep the conversation from getting too serious he added with a smile — Sherlock Holmes was aware of that.

  — But it’s sad to only see obvious things the way I do and find them strange. It’s so strange. Suddenly it’s as if I opened my closed hand and found a stone: a rough diamond in its raw form. Oh God, I don’t even know what I’m talking about anymore.

  They sat in silence.

  — I’ve never spoken this much, Lóri said.

  — With me you’ll speak your whole soul, even in silence. One day I’ll speak my whole soul, and we won’t run dry because the soul is infinite. And besides we have two bodies which will be a joyful, mute, deep pleasure for us.

  Lóri, to Ulisses’s delighted surprise, blushed.

  He looked closely at her and said:

  — Lóri, you’ve gone red yet you’ve had five lovers.

  She bowed her head, not in guilt but as a child hides its face. That’s what Ulisses thought and his heart beat joyfully. Because he was infinitely further along in the apprenticeship: he could recognize in himself the joy and the victory.

  Again they lapsed into silence. As if feeling they’d said more than she could, at present, bear, Ulisses struck a lighter and more casual tone:

  — How long since you completed your training, I mean, to be a teacher?

  — Five years.

  — Are you all about the number five? he asked smiling. I bet you were top of your year.

  She was surprised:

  — How did you know?

  — Because your fellow students must have been busy with life, and you, in order not to suffer, must have devoted yourself body and soul to your studies. I bet you’re also one of the best teachers at your school.

  — For the same reason? she asked sadly.

  — Yes. I don’t mean there’s always only one reason for being among the best. I, for example, am supposed to be one of the best professors in my university. Firstly because the subject always excited me and I expected it to answer my questions, to make me think. I take enormous pleasure in thinking, Lóri. Later, I was lucky to have great teachers, as well as simultaneously being an autodidact: I spent almost all my money back then buying ridiculously expensive books. Another bit of luck for me as a teacher: my students love me. But I was also living, and I keep living now. Whereas you’re a good teacher but you might not even let yourself laugh with your pupils. Later you’ll learn, Lóri, and then you’ll experience in full the great joy of communicating, of imparting.

  Lóri sat there silent and serious.

  — Lóri, read this poem and understand — he pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket — I write poetry not because I’m a poet but to exercise my soul, it’s man’s most profound exercise. In general what comes out is incongruous, and it rarely has a theme: it’s more like research into how to think. This one might have come out with a meaning that’s easier to grasp.

  She read the poem, didn’t understand anything and gave him back the sheet, in silence.

  — If I ever write an essay again, I’ll want it to be the greatest. And the greatest should be said with the mathematical perfection of music, transposed to the deep rapture of a feeling-thought. Not quite transposed, since the process is the same, except mus
ic and words use different tools. There must, there has to, be a way to reach that. My poems are unpoetic but my essays are long poems in prose, in which I exercise to the maximum my ability to think and intuit. We, people who write, have in the human word, written or spoken, a great mystery that I don’t want to unmask with my reasoning which is cold. I must not question the mystery in order not to betray the miracle. Whoever writes or paints or teaches or dances or does mathematical calculations, is working miracles every day. It’s a great adventure and demands much courage and devotion and much humility. Humility in living isn’t my strong point. But when I write I’m fated to be humble. Though within limits. Because the day I lose my own importance inside me — all will be lost. Conceitedness would be better, and the person who thinks he’s the center of the world is closer to salvation, which is a silly thought, of course. What you can’t do is stop loving yourself with a certain immodesty. To keep my strength, which is as great and helpless as that of any man who has respect for human strength, in order to keep it I have no modesty, unlike you.

  They sat in silence.

  — Instead of a guarana soda, can I have a whiskey? she asked.

  — Of course, he said as he waved the waiter over. Are you trying to intensify this moment with the whiskey?

  — Yes, she replied, surprised by his explanation.

  She didn’t know how to drink: she drank quickly as if it were soda. Soon, a little bashfully, she asked for another.

  Ulisses smiled, as he called for the waiter.

  — Drink more slowly or it’ll go straight to your head. And also because drinking isn’t about getting drunk, it’s something else. Perhaps because I’m an old relic, I like seeing a woman who doesn’t drink.

  The waiter came over, served her, adding more ice.

  — And your ancestors, Lóri?

  — I don’t know what you mean, but if it’s about my family, only my father’s left, and four brothers. I don’t get along with them. They tried to make an impression on me but they were never that important in my life, and even less so once they lost most of their money and almost the majority of the servants. I took advantage of the chaos to come to Rio. It was an odd and nice experience to go from the big rooms of the family home, in Campos, to the tiny apartment that would have fitted in its entirety into one of the house’s smaller rooms. I felt I’d returned to my true proportions. And the freedom, of course.

  — And who was important in your life?

  — Nobody.

  — Did people fall in love with you?

  — Yes.

  — I thought so. I, for reasons unknown, ever since I was a lad had a talent: of awakening something in women. Doesn’t your gift for attracting men affect you?

  She pursed her lips deliberately as if to show she wasn’t going to talk.

  — You don’t need to answer, he smiled. Just as your gift for attraction is working on me . . . You know, he said simply, that the two of us are attractive as man and woman.

  Lóri, already warmed by the whiskey, smiled at such frankness.

  — You smiled! Do you know what happened to you? You smiled without shame! Oh, Lóri, when you learn, you’ll see how much time you’ve lost. The tragedy of life does exist and we regret it. But that doesn’t keep us from having a deep nearness with joy through that same life.

  — I can’t! Lóri almost shouted, I can’t, I’m lost. If I try to draw nearer to whatever you’re talking about I’ll be bewildered forever.

  He didn’t reply, as if she hadn’t spoken. They sat in silence until she herself felt she’d pulled herself together.

  — I’m not here because I want to give you lessons, unless perhaps for other reasons, because I too am still learning, with difficulty. But there are already so many tired people. My joy is rough and effective, and not smug, it’s revolutionary. Anyone can have this joy but they’re too busy being lambs of gods.

  Though it was fall it was one of the hottest days of the year, Lóri was sweating so much that the back of her dress was soaking, beads of sweat were pearling on her forehead and running down her cheeks. It seemed she was fighting one-on-one against this man, as she was fighting herself, and that it was symbolic that she was sweating and he wasn’t. She wiped her face with a tissue, while feeling that Ulisses was scrutinizing her and she realized he was enjoying looking at her. He said:

  — In a way you’re beautiful. I like your sweaty face without makeup though I also like the over-the-top way you do yourself up. But that’s because when you’re done up you’re proving somehow that you’re not a virgin. No, don’t get me wrong, don’t think I wish you were a virgin, anyway you are somehow. How many men was it you’ve had?

  — Five, she replied knowing perfectly well he hadn’t forgotten.

  — You know, don’t you, that as long as I’m just your friend, I’ve been sleeping with other women. I was with one for half a year.

  — I thought so, she replied without jealousy.

  She’d never been jealous of her men but she knew she might become violently jealous of Ulisses, if they became lovers.

  — If you become mine one day, the way I want, I’d like to have a child with you, just like this, your unmade face covered in sweat.

  She was a little shocked by the unexpected comment, he smiled:

  — Don’t be afraid. Firstly, because the way I want you to be mine, will only happen when you also want it in the same way. And that will take time because you haven’t discovered whatever you need to discover. And what’s more, if you do become mine in that way, you might want a child. Because besides constructing ourselves, we’ll probably want to construct another being. Lóri, despite my apparent sureness, I too am working to get ready for you. Including from now on, until you’re mine, by not going to bed with any other woman.

  — No! she exclaimed.

  — That doesn’t put you under any obligation, silly girl, he laughed. This problem is all mine. And no doubt you’ve got the wrong idea about men: they can be chaste, Lóri, when they want to be.

  Her eyes had taken on a dreamy, distracted look, a bit empty. She was thinking: if Ulisses wanted her to realize something or other in order to become some kind of initiate in life, it would have to happen slowly, if it were quick something in her might be struck down. But she was aware that Ulisses knew that too, and she already knew how patient he was. She was the one losing patience and starting to feel a rush of greed.

  — Do you want to walk down to Posto 6? asked Lóri, sometimes the fishermen unload their catch around this time.

  He examined her for a long instant that she didn’t understand, and suddenly with a sigh and a smile said:

  — No, I’m sure you don’t know. It’s too bad people call you Lóri, because your name Loreley is prettier. Do you know who Loreley was?

  — Was she someone?

  — Loreley is the name of a legendary character in German folklore, sung about in a lovely poem by Heine. The legend says that Loreley would seduce fishermen with her songs and they’d end up dying at the bottom of the sea, I can’t remember the details anymore. No, don’t look at me with those guilty eyes. First of all, I’m the one doing the seducing. I know, I know you get all dressed up for me, but that’s because I’m seducing you. And I’m not a fisherman, I’m a man who you’ll realize one day knows less than he seems to, though he’s lived and studied a lot. Now that your eyes are normal (!) again, we can go watch the fishermen, though given how hot it is I had thought of going to dinner with you in Tijuca Forest. But doing both would be too much for you. Lóri, you’re waking up through curiosity, that curiosity that drives you into real life. But don’t be afraid of the dislocation that will come. That dislocation is needed so you can see everything that, if it were joined up and harmonious, couldn’t be seen, would be taken for granted. The dislocation involves a clash between you and reality, you should be prepared for that, Lóri
, the truth is that I’m telling you about part of the journey I’ve already been on. In the worst moments, remember: whoever can suffer intensely, can also feel intense joy. If you want to see the fish, Loreley, let’s go.

  He paid the check, they got up and started to walk since they weren’t far from Posto 6.

  They were walking slowly in the breeze that was now blowing in from the sea, and chatting every so often like old friends.

  — I wonder if the restaurant in Tijuca Forest still serves chicken in black sauce, nice and black because of the thick blood they use there. When I think of our voracious pleasure in eating the blood of others, I realize how cruel we are, said Ulisses.

  — I like it too, Lóri said quietly. Me of all people who could never kill a chicken, I like them so much alive, darting around with their ugly necks and looking for worms. Wouldn’t it be better, if we go there, to eat something else? she asked somewhat shaken.

  — Of course we should eat it, we mustn’t forget and should respect the violence inside us. Small acts of violence save us from greater ones. Maybe, if we didn’t eat animals, maybe we’d eat people in their own blood. Our life is cruel, Loreley: we’re born with blood and with blood the possibility of perfect union is cut forever: the umbilical cord. And many are they who die from blood spilled inside or out. We must believe in blood as an important part of life. Cruelty is love too.

  They were almost there. Ulisses said:

  — You walk, Loreley, as if carrying a jug on your shoulder and raising one hand to keep your balance. You’re a very ancient woman, Loreley. It doesn’t matter that your clothes and hair are in fashion, you’re ancient. And it’s rare to meet a woman who hasn’t broken from the lineage of women down through time. Are you a priestess, Loreley? he asked with a smile.

  The good thing, she thought, was that he said disturbing things but immediately cut through the seriousness, which would have upset her, with a smile or an ironic word.