Selected Cronicas

THE PRINCESS (III)

However, I still preferred her advice and criticism. Much less tolerable was her habit of using the word therefore as a way of linking sentences into a never-ending chain. She told me that I bought far too many vegetables at the market — therefore — they would not fit into my small fridge and — therefore — they would go bad before the next market day. A few days later I looked at the vegetables, and they had gone bad. Therefore — she was right. On another occasion, she saw fewer vegetables lying on the kitchen table, as I had secretly taken her advice. Ofélia looked and looked. She seemed prepared to say nothing. I waited, standing there fuming but saying nothing. Ofélia said phlegmatically:

— It won’t be long before there’s another market day.

The vegetables had run out towards the middle of the week. How did she know? I asked myself bewildered. Probably she would reply with ‘therefore’. Why did I never, never know? Why did she know everything, why was the earth so familiar to her, and here was I without protection? Therefore? Therefore.

On one occasion, Ofélia actually made a mistake. Geography — she said, sitting before me with her hands clasped on her lap — is a kind of study. It was not exactly a mistake, it was a slight miscalculation — but for me it had the grace of defeat, and before the moment could pass, I said to her mentally: that’s exactly how it’s done! just go on like that and one day it will be easier or more difficult for you, but that’s the way, just go on making mistakes, ever so slowly.

One morning, in the midst of her conversation, she announced peremptorily: ‘I’m going home to get something but I’ll be right back.’ I dared to suggest: ‘If you’ve got something to do, there’s no need to hurry back.’ Ofélia looked at me, silent and questioning. ‘There is a very nasty little girl’, I thought firmly to myself so that she might see the entire sentence written on my face. She kept on looking at me. A look wherein — to my surprise and dismay — I saw loyalty, patient confidence in me, and the silence of someone who never spoke. When had I ever thrown her a bone — that she should follow me in silence for the rest of my life? I averted my eyes. She gave a tranquil sigh. ‘I’ll be right back.’ What does she want? — I became nervous — why do I attract people who do not even like me?

Once when Ofélia was sitting there, the door-bell rang. I opened the door and came face to face with Ofélia’s mother. Protective and unbending, she had come in search of her daughter.

— Is Ofélia Maria here by any chance?

— Yes, she is, I said, excusing myself as if I had abducted her.

— Don’t do that again — she said to Ofélia with a tone of voice that was meant for me: then turning to me, she suddenly sounded peevish: I’m sorry if you’ve been troubled.

— Not at all, your little girl is so clever.

The mother looked at me in mild surprise — but suspicion flickered across her eyes. And in her expression I could read: what do you want from her?

— I have already forbidden Ofélia to come bothering you, she now said with open distrust. And firmly grabbing the little girl by the hand to lead her away, she appeared to be protecting her from me. Feeling positively degenerate, I watched them through the half-opened spy-hole without making a sound: the two of them walked down the corridor leading to their apartment, the mother sheltering her child with murmured words of loving reproach, the daughter impassive with her swaying plaits and flounces. On closing the spy-hole, I realized that I was still in my dressing-gown and that I had been seen like this by the mother who dressed the moment she got up. I thought somewhat defiantly: Well, now that her mother despises me, at least there will be no more visits from the daughter.

But naturally, she came back. I was much too attractive for that child. I had enough defects to warrant her advice, I was apt terrain for exercising her severity, I had already become the property of that slave of mine: of course, she came back, lifted her flounces and sat down.

As it happened, Easter was approaching, the market was full of chicks and I had brought one home for the children. We amused ourselves with it, then the chick was put in the kitchen while the children went out to play. Soon afterwards, Ofélia appeared for her daily visit. I was typing and from time to time I would express assent, my thoughts elsewhere. The girl’s monotonous voice, the singsong of someone reciting from memory, made me feel quite dizzy, her voice infiltrating between the words typed on the paper, as she talked and talked.

Then it struck me that everything seemed to have come to a sudden standstill. Aware that I was no longer being tortured, I looked at her hazily. Ofélia Maria’s head was erect, her plaits transfixed.

— What’s that? she asked.

— What’s what?

— That! she said stubbornly.

— What?

We might have remained there forever in a vicious circle of ‘that!’ and ‘what?’, were it not for the extraordinary will-power of this child, who, without saying a word, but with an expression of intransigent authority, obliged me to hear what she herself was hearing. Forced into attentive silence, I finally heard the faint chirping of the chick in the kitchen.

— It’s the chick.

— The chick? she said, most suspiciously.

— I bought a chick, I replied submissively.

— A chick! she repeated, as if I had insulted her.

— A chick.