A General Theory of Oblivion

THE ACCIDENT

Often, when I used to look in a mirror, I’d see him behind me. I no longer do. Perhaps because I see so poorly now (a benefit of blindness), perhaps because we’ve replaced the mirrors. As soon as the money for the apartment came in, I bought new mirrors. I got rid of the old ones. My neighbour found this strange:

‘The only things in decent condition in your apartment are the mirrors.’

‘No!’ I got annoyed. ‘The mirrors are haunted!’

‘Haunted?!’

‘That’s right, dear neighbour. They’re full of shadows. They’ve spent too long in a state of solitude.’

I didn’t want to tell him that often, when I looked into the mirrors, I saw looming over me the man who raped me. In those days I still used to leave the house. I led an almost normal life. I’d go to and from school, by bicycle. In the summer we’d rent a house on the Costa Nova. I’d go swimming. I liked swimming. One afternoon, as we arrived home from the beach, I realised I was missing the book I’d been reading. I went back, alone, to find it. There was a row of little beach huts set up on the sand. It was getting dark now, though, and they were deserted. I headed for the hut we’d been using. I went in. I heard a noise, and as I turned I saw a man standing at the door, smiling at me. I recognised him. I used to see him, in a bar, playing cards with my father. I was going to explain what I was doing there, but I didn’t get the chance. As I was about to speak he was already on top of me. He tore my dress, ripped my knickers, and penetrated me. I remember the smell. And his hands, rough, hard, squeezing my breasts. I screamed. He slapped my face, hard, rhythmic blows, not with hatred, not angrily, as though he were enjoying himself. I fell silent. I arrived home sobbing, my dress torn, covered in blood, my face swollen. My father understood everything. He went out of his mind. He slapped me. As he lashed me, with his belt, he screamed at me. Whore, tramp, wretch! I can still hear him today. Whore! Whore! My mother clinging to him. My sister in tears.

I never knew for sure what happened to the man who raped me. He was a fisherman. They say he ran off to Spain. He disappeared. I became pregnant. I locked myself away in a bedroom. They locked me away in a bedroom. Outside, I heard people whispering. When it was time, a midwife came to help me. I never even saw my daughter’s face. They took her from me.

The shame. The shame is what stopped me leaving the house. My father died without ever addressing another word to me. I would go into the living room and he’d get up and leave. Years passed, he died. Some months later, my mother followed him. I moved to my sister’s house. Bit by bit I forgot myself. I thought about my child every day. Every day I taught myself not to think about her.

I was never again able to go out without feeling a profound shame.

That has passed, now. I go out and I no longer feel ashamed. I no longer feel afraid. I go out and the grocer women greet me. They give me a laugh, as though we are family.

The children play with me, they take my hand. I don’t know if it’s because I’m very old, or because I’m as much a child as they are.