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  22

  With the natural vitality of a six-year-old, Henrique made a rapid recovery. And yet, despite the relatively benign nature of the illness, his character seemed to have undergone a radical change. Perhaps the experience of being showered with care and affection had made him more than usually sensitive. At the slightest harsh word, his eyes would well up and he would burst into tears.

  The once lively, playful boy had become prudent and sensible. In his father’s company he was always serious and silent. He would gaze at him tenderly, in dumb, passionate admiration, even though this sudden interest went unreciprocated and his father was no more affectionate toward him than usual. What attracted Henrique now was exactly what had repelled him before: his father’s silence, his few words, his absent air. For reasons unknown to him, and which he would not have understood had he known them, his father had kept vigil at his bedside. His presence there, the anxious yet reserved look on his face, the hostile atmosphere filling the apartment, plus the new receptiveness and keener perception brought on by illness—all these factors, in some obscure way, drove him toward his father. One of the many doors in his small brain, which had until then remained closed, had inched open. Without being conscious of doing so, he had taken a step toward maturity. He began to notice the lack of harmony in the family.

  He had, of course, witnessed violent rows between his parents on other occasions, but he had done so as an indifferent spectator, as if he were watching a game that in no way affected him. Not now, though. He was still under the influence of the illness and his weak state, and prior to that he had become, quite against his will, sensitized to the various manifestations of that latent conflict. The prism through which he viewed his parents had shifted very slightly, but enough for him to be able to see them differently. This would inevitably have happened sooner or later, but the illness had sped up the process.

  His mother remained undiminished in his eyes, his view of her unchanged, but he saw his father in a different light. Henrique was far too young to realize that the change had taken place inside himself; it must, therefore, have been his father who had changed. In the absence of any real explanation, Henrique had to think back to the care his father had lavished on him during his illness. This then made sense to him. And so Henrique’s sudden interest in his father was merely a way of reciprocating his father’s interest in him, not now, but then; it was an acknowledgment, a show of gratitude. Each age in life seizes upon the easiest and most immediate explanation available.

  This interest manifested itself in both sensible and nonsensical ways. At mealtimes, Henrique’s chair was always drawn slightly closer to his father’s chair than to his mother’s. When, at night, Emílio was sorting through his paperwork—the various orders and invoices he had picked up during the day—his son would stand leaning on the table, watching him. If a piece of paper fell to the floor—and Henrique longed with all his heart for this to happen—he would rush to pick it up, and if his father smiled at him gratefully, Henrique was the happiest of children. There was an even greater happiness, though, one that admitted of no comparison: this was when his father placed a hand on his head. At such moments, Henrique almost fainted.

  His son’s sudden and apparently inexplicable interest provoked two different and contrary reactions in Emílio. At first he found it very touching. His life was so barren of affection, so removed from love, he felt so isolated, that these small attentions, his son’s constant presence at his side, his stubborn devotion to him, touched him deeply. Then he saw how dangerous it was: his son’s interest, his own feelings, only made his decision to leave more difficult. He hardened his heart, tried to distance himself from his son, emphasizing the character traits most likely to discourage him. Henrique, however, did not give up. Had Emílio resorted to violence, he might have driven him away, but he couldn’t do that. He had never hit him and never would, even if administering such a beating were the price he must pay for his own freedom. He felt almost sick to think that he could attack Henrique with the same hand that had caressed him and which Henrique loved because of that caress.

  Emílio thought too much. His brain attached itself to all kinds of things, went over and over the same problems, plunged into them, drowned in them, so that, in the end, his own thoughts became the problem. He forgot what was really important to him and went off in search of motives, reasons. Life was rushing past him and yet he paid it no attention. The matter to be resolved was there, but he could not see it. Even if it could have shouted to him, “Here I am! Over here!,” he would not have heard it. Now, instead of looking for a way of distancing himself from his son, he started pondering the reasons for his son’s sudden interest in him. And when he could find none, his brain, caught in the web of his subconscious, produced only a superstitious explanation: his son’s illness had gotten worse after he announced to him that he was planning to leave, and this was why Henrique, frightened by the prospect of losing him, was showing all this unexpected interest in him. When he emerged from this paralyzing quagmire of thoughts, Emílio realized how irrational this conclusion was: Henrique had barely heard what he had said, he had paid about as much attention to it as to a passing fly, forgotten almost as soon as it was seen. Besides, he had not heard his final, definitive, irrevocable words, because by then he had fallen asleep. Here, though, Emílio’s brain set off once more along the tightrope of his subconscious: words spoken, even if not heard, remain hanging in the air, hovering in the atmosphere, and can, so to speak, be inhaled and have as much effect as if they had found in their path ears that could hear them. A foolish, superstitious conclusion, woven out of evil omens and mysteries.

  What was happening was further proof to Carmen of her husband’s perverse nature. Not content with having denied her any happiness, he was now trying to steal her one remaining possession, the love of her son. She fought against Emílio’s dastardly plans. She heaped affection on her son, but Henrique gave more importance to a simple glance from his father than to all his mother’s exuberant displays of affection. In despair, Carmen even came to believe that her husband must have bewitched him, given him some potion to drink that had changed his feelings. And once she had this idea lodged in her head, she knew what to do. In secret, she submitted the boy to prayers and incense, terrifying him with threats of beatings if he breathed so much as a word to his father.

  Troubled by these weird ceremonies, Henrique became more nervous and excitable. Frightened by her threats, he drew closer to his father.

  All Carmen’s efforts were in vain: no amount of witchcraft or affection could divert her son from his obstinate obsession. She became aggressive toward him. She began to find reasons to hit him. The smallest misdemeanor was rewarded with a slap. She knew what she was doing was wrong, but couldn’t help herself. When, after hitting him, she saw him crying, she would cry too, but alone and out of anger and remorse. She wanted to beat and beat him until she could beat him no more, although she knew that she would regret forever having done such a thing. She had lost all self-control. She felt like committing some monstrous act, smashing everything around her, rampaging through the apartment kicking the furniture and punching the walls, screaming at her husband and shaking and slapping him. Her nerves were constantly on edge, she had lost all sense of prudence, as well as the vague fear that married women have of their husbands.

  One night at supper, Henrique moved his stool so close to his father’s that Carmen felt a wave of anger rise in her throat. She felt as if her head were about to burst. Everything around her was swaying and dancing, and in order not to fall she instinctively grabbed hold of the edge of the table, knocking over a bottle in the process. This accident, the shattering of glass, was the lit fuse that allowed her rage to explode. Almost screaming, she said:

  “¡Estoy harta! I’ve had enough!”

  Emílio, who was eating his soup and had not reacted to the bottle falling over, looked up serenely, regarded his wife with his pale, cold eyes and asked:

 
; “Enough of what?”

  Before answering, Carmen shot such a furious glance at her son that he shrank back and clung to his father’s arm:

  “Enough of you! Enough of this apartment! Enough of your son! I’ve had enough of this life! I’ve had enough, I tell you!”

  “Well, you know what the solution is.”

  “That’s exactly what you’d like, isn’t it? For me to leave. ¡Pero no iré! I won’t go!”

  “Fine, as you wish.”

  “And what if I did want to go?”

  “Don’t worry, I wouldn’t come looking for you.”

  He accompanied these words with a mocking laugh, which to Carmen was worse than a slap in the face. Certain that she would wound her husband deeply, she retorted:

  “You might come looking for me . . . because if I leave, I won’t leave alone!”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’ll take my son with me!”

  Emílio felt Henrique’s hand grip his arm still harder. He glanced down at him, saw his trembling lips and moist eyes, and was filled with a feeling of intense pity and tenderness. He tried to spare his son this degrading spectacle:

  “This is a completely stupid conversation. Haven’t you noticed that your son is here listening?”

  “¡No me importa! I don’t care! And don’t pretend you don’t know what I mean!”

  “That’s enough!”

  “Only when I say so!”

  “Carmen!”

  She looked at him then. Her strong jaw, grown more pronounced with age, seemed to challenge him:

  “I’m not afraid of you, not you or anyone!”

  No, Carmen clearly wasn’t afraid, but suddenly her voice broke, tears poured down her cheeks and, swept along by uncontrollable emotion, she hurled herself on her son. Kneeling, her voice shaken by sobs, she was murmuring in Spanish, almost moaning:

  “Sweetheart, look at me. I’m your mother. I’m your friend. No one loves you as much as I do!”

  Henrique was trembling with fear, clinging to his father. Carmen continued her incoherent monologue, ever more aware that her son was slipping away from her and yet incapable of letting him go.

  Emílio stood up, tore his son from his wife’s arms, then drew her to her feet and sat her down on a stool. Close to fainting, she let him do as he pleased.

  “Carmen!”

  She was sitting hunched forward, her head in her hands, weeping. On the other side of the table, Henrique seemed to be in a state of shock. He had his mouth open as if he were gasping for air, his eyes as glazed and fixed as if he were blind. Emílio rushed to his side, spoke soothing words to him and carried him out of the kitchen.

  With great difficulty, he managed to calm the child down. When they returned, Carmen was wiping her eyes on her dirty apron. Seeing her there, looking suddenly old and tired, her face strained and red, he felt sorry for her:

  “Are you feeling better?”

  “Yes. What about the child?”

  “He’s all right.”

  They sat at the table in silence. In silence they ate. After this stormy scene, the calm of sheer exhaustion imposed that silence on them. Father, mother and son. Three people living under the same roof, in the same light, breathing the same air. A family.

  When the meal was over, Emílio went into the dining room, and his son followed. He sat down on an old wicker sofa, as wearily as if he had just been engaged in heavy labor. Henrique came and leaned against his knees.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “I’m OK, Papa.”

  Emílio stroked his son’s soft hair and felt profoundly affected by the child’s small head, almost small enough to fit in his hand. He brushed Henrique’s hair out of his eyes, smoothed his fine eyebrows, then followed the shape of his face as far as his chin. Henrique allowed himself to be stroked as if he were a puppy. He was barely breathing, as though afraid that a mere breath would be enough to stop the stroking. His eyes were fixed on his father. Emílio’s hand continued to stroke his son’s face, unaware now of what it was doing, a mechanical movement in which the conscious mind played no part. Henrique sensed that sudden distancing. He slipped between his father’s knees and rested his head on his chest.

  Now that Emílio was free from his son’s gaze, his eyes wandered from one piece of furniture to another, from object to object. Perched on a column was the clay figure of a boy fishing, his feet in an empty aquarium. Underneath the statuette, a doily, falling in folds from the top of the column, provided evidence of Carmen’s domestic talents. A few wine glasses gleamed dully on the sideboard and in the so-called china cupboard, which otherwise contained only a few examples of local ceramics. More doilies were further proof of Carmen’s homemaking skills. Everything had a kind of matte finish to it, as if a layer of dust, impossible to remove, were hiding any gloss or color.

  Emílio’s overriding impression was of ugliness, monotony and banality. The ceiling lamp shed light in such a way that its main function seemed to be to distribute shadows. And it was a modern lamp too. It had three chrome arms, each with its corresponding shade, but for the sake of economy, only one bulb worked.

  Carmen continued to make her presence felt from the kitchen, sighing loudly as she pondered her misery and washed the dishes.

  With his son pressed to him, Emílio saw the prosaic nature of both his present and past lives. As for the future, he was holding that in his arms, except that it wasn’t his future. In a few years’ time, the head now resting happily on his chest would be thinking for itself, but thinking what?

  Emílio gently lifted his son from where he lay on his chest and looked at him. Henrique’s thoughts were still slumbering behind his now serene face. All was hidden.

  23

  Amélia whispered in her sister’s ear:

  “The girls have had a falling-out.”

  “What?”

  “A falling-out.”

  They were in the kitchen. They had finished supper shortly before. In the next room, Adriana and Isaura were busy sewing buttonholes in shirts. The light from there poured out through the open door into the dark passageway. Cândida looked at her sister incredulously.

  “Don’t you believe me?” asked Amélia.

  Cândida shrugged and stuck out her lower lip to indicate her complete ignorance of the situation.

  “If you didn’t go around with your eyes closed, you would have noticed.”

  “But what’s wrong?”

  “That’s what I’d like to know.”

  “It’s your imagination . . .”

  “Possibly, but you could count on the fingers of one hand the number of words they’ve said to each other today. And not just today either. Haven’t you noticed?”

  “No.”

  “See what I mean? You walk around with your eyes closed. Leave me to tidy the kitchen, and go in there and observe.”

  Taking her usual tiny steps, Cândida walked down the corridor to the room where her daughters were sitting. Absorbed in their work, the two sisters didn’t even look up when their mother came in. Donizetti’s Lucia di Lammermoor was playing softly on the radio; the shrill tones of a soprano were filling the air. More in order to gauge the atmosphere than to make any proper critical comment, Cândida said:

  “Goodness, what a voice! She sounds like she’s performing somersaults!”

  Her daughters smiled, but their smiles seemed as forced and effortful as the singer’s vocal acrobatics. Cândida felt concerned. Her sister was quite right. There was something odd going on. She had never seen her daughters like this, reserved and distant, as if they were afraid of each other. She tried to come out with some conciliatory phrase, but her throat, grown suddenly dry, could not produce a single word. Isaura and Adriana carried on with their work. The singer’s voice faded out in an ethereal, almost inaudible smorzando. The orchestra played three swift chords, and then the tenor’s voice rose, strong and compelling.

  “How well Gigli sings!” exclaimed Cândida, simply in orde
r to say something.

  The two sisters glanced at each other and hesitated, each wanting the other to speak. Both felt they should reply, and in the end it was Adriana who said:

  “Yes, he does. He sings really well, but he’s getting on a bit now.”

  Glad, at least for a few minutes, to be able to resume their usual evening banter, Cândida hotly defended Gigli:

  “What does that matter? Just listen. There’s no other singer like him. And as for being old, well, old people have their value too. Who sings better than Gigli? Tell me that. Some older people are worth a lot more than many younger ones . . .”

  As if the shirt she was working on had presented her with some unexpectedly intractable problem, Isaura lowered her head. Although her mother’s remark about the relative values of old and young could only remotely have been a reference to her, she turned bright red. Like everyone who has a secret to hide, she saw insinuations and suspicions in every word and glance. Adriana noticed her embarrassment, guessed the reason behind it and tried to bring the conversation to a close.

  “Oh, you old people are always complaining about the young!”

  “But I wasn’t complaining,” said Cândida.

  “Hm,” Adriana responded with a somewhat impatient gesture. She was normally calm, almost indifferent, quite unlike her sister, in whom one sensed a kind of constant tremor beneath the skin, signaling an intense, tumultuous inner life. Now, however, she, too, was agitated. All conversations irritated her, and what irritated her even more was the eternally perplexed and anxious look on her mother’s face, as well as the humble tone in which she had spoken.

  Cândida noticed the brusque note in Adriana’s voice and fell silent. She shrank back into her chair, took up her crochet work and tried to disappear.