Blooms of Darkness

41

Mariana’s religiosity surprises Hugo anew every time. He has noticed that when she’s depressed, she doesn’t talk about God but about herself and her sins, painting hell in fiery colors. But two or three swallows of brandy erase the gloom from her face. A new light makes her forehead throb, and she speaks directly to God.

“Dear God, You understand my heart better than any person. You know that my pleasures in this world were few and bad, my humiliations were many and bitter. I don’t say that I’m a righteous woman worthy to go to heaven. I bear a burden of shame, and that’s why I’ll pay a forfeit when the day comes. But I never stopped longing for You, God. Even when I’m in the depths of hell, You are my beloved.”

At night she allows him to touch her breasts. Her breasts are big and full, and they give off warmth and an inebriating smell. Mariana seems to like the way he touches her, because she says, “You’re gentle, you’re good, you love Mariana.”

Again she makes Hugo swear. “Whatever happens between us is a secret forever and ever.”

“I swear,” he cries out.

Now that there are hardly any guests, the nights are filled with soft darkness. On the rare occasions when a guest knocks at Mariana’s door, she quickly tells him she’s drunk too much and can’t entertain anyone. The guest turns away and goes to the next door.

Mariana is now laden with brandy. Her mood is exalted, her brain is feverish, and from her mouth come glowing utterances. She tells Hugo that she has worked in residences like this since she was a young girl. They were all the same: a guard at the door, a thin and unbearable madam, and the hostesses. Among the hostesses there were good ones and mean ones. Most of them were bitches. This was no surprise: two or three hungry men every night can burn up even the sturdiest woman. “Since I was fourteen, they’ve been devouring me,” she says. “Now I feel like lying in bed and hugging my big puppy and sleeping for hours and hours. There’s nothing like an uninterrupted night’s sleep.”

Again she surprises him. “You should stay a puppy,” she says. “Men who are puppies are sweet. When they grow up they turn into beasts of prey. I won’t let you grow up. You’ll stay the way you are. Do you agree?”

“I agree.”

“I knew you’d agree. I know you by now.”

One night she tells him, “There’s nothing else to be said: Jews are gentler. They wouldn’t abuse a naked woman. They’ll always touch her softly, whisper a good word in her ear, always leave her a few extra banknotes. They know that Madam takes most of the cash for herself. Your mother was always good to me. During the hardest days, she remembered me and brought me clothes, fruit, cheese. What didn’t she bring? She never forgot that the two of us once sat at the same desk, that both of us loved to play jump rope and ball. She never said to me, Why don’t you do respectable work? I actually expected her to speak sternly to me, but I was glad that she didn’t torment me.

“Like I said: the Jews are gentler. The Jewish students always tried to get me to join the Communist Party. Once I even let myself be convinced to go to their headquarters. They discussed and argued over things I didn’t have any idea about. To tell the truth, I wasn’t suitable for them. I grew up in mud, and like a mud-animal, I didn’t know any other atmosphere.

“You, thank God, grew up in a good home. Your parents let you observe, think, imagine. I ran away and went from place to place, always afraid and always ashamed. My father, God forgive him, used to beat me with sticks. It started when I was a child. He also hit my sister, but he beat me more bitterly. It’s no wonder I ran away from home.

“He used to follow me, and when he found me, he would beat me mercilessly. I can feel his lashes to this very day. Those are scars that never healed. My flesh still remembers them. He was a fierce detective. He wouldn’t return home until he found me. Sometimes he would look for me for a whole week, and when he found me, there was no limit to his cruelty.

“Why am I remembering him? It’s impossible not to remember him. His lashes are embedded in me, to the marrow of my bones. I don’t mean to disturb his eternal rest. Let him rest in peace in his grave, but what can I do? When I lie in bed, the scars wake me up and gnaw at me.

“My mother, of blessed memory, was better to me. She also suffered. My father didn’t spare her, either. He was always angry at her: ‘Why didn’t you pick the cabbage? Why is the barn neglected?’ The poor thing would apologize and ask for mercy and promise to do everything, but because she didn’t keep her promises, he would scream at her and sometimes slap her face. In time, when she got sick, he would say, ‘You’re pretending to be sick. There’s nothing wrong with you. You don’t want to work. From lying in bed so much, you’ll really get sick.’ But in the end he died before she did.”

Hugo hears all this and says, “In a little while, we’ll be surrounded by nature, without people.”

“But now it’s raining,” Mariana replies. “Better to stay here. Here there’s a warm stove.”

As the hours pass it rains harder. There are no preparations for nightly duties and no sudden visits from Madam. The women sit in the hall. They drink and sing. Hugo likes to listen to their Ukrainian folk songs. Sometimes a sob is heard from the hall, and everyone joins in. Only Madam isn’t pleased. Hugo sometimes hears her voice: “Without customers, we’ll have to close The Residence.”

“And what will happen to us?”

“Everyone will go her own way.”

Upon hearing her answer, the women sit in silence, and Hugo feels that the enemy is both outside and within. He wants to say, the way Mariana herself used to say now and then, Don’t be afraid. Fear is a shameful quality, fear is what brings us down to hell. You mustn’t fear people.