The Selected Stories

BEFORE I DIE

Before I die I want to write an account of the last two years of my life to explain — explain to myself — everything I’ve been forced to renounce. One afternoon toward the end of winter, I was so cold that I went into a café and ordered a grog. The café was called “Els Ocells,” the birds. I sat down at a table by the window. People were hunched over as they hurried past. I was nervous. I’d had an argument with the instructor in my art course; he said my colors were too muted and I didn’t agree. I thought he was old fashioned and had terrible judgment. I found it utterly absurd that he didn’t want to understand me and realize that the way I painted was the way I had to paint. Besides, I was in a bad mood because I should have received a check from my uncle a couple of weeks before, and as I was leaving the pension in the morning, the proprietor asked me when I was going to pay my bill. To top it off, I had dropped my fountain pen on the floor and the tip had broken. I asked the boy in the café for pen and ink; I wanted to write my uncle at once. As I was taking paper and envelopes from my satchel, a man sat down beside me. There was nothing extraordinary about him. I would never have noticed him had he not sat beside me. Such audacity! I considered it offensive, especially as there were so many empty tables.

Among my classmates I was known to be rather wild and unsociable, a person “easily irritable, with unexpected, violent reactions.” The man sat there beside me without moving, his briefcase on the table casting a shadow on me. It was a good-quality briefcase, but worn, made of brown leather, with spots on it, a metal lock. He had provoked me, and without giving it a thought, I spilled my drink on him.

“Don’t worry.”

His voice made me even more indignant. A cold, dark voice, accompanied by an indifferent glance. He pulled out a handkerchief and calmly dried his trousers.

“I did it on purpose.”

“I don’t believe I have disturbed you.”

“Why did you sit at my table?”

“Forgive me, it is you who are sitting at my table.”

I looked at him in surprise.

“Tables in a café don’t have owners; they’re for the first person who arrives.”

“I am a creature of habit; I come to this café every day at the same hour, and invariably I sit at this table, summer and winter.”

•

The following day I returned to the café. He entered and headed straight to his table. I was sitting opposite. We looked at each other and laughed. The previous night, before falling asleep, I had thought about the incident with the drink and felt bad.

As I left the café I noticed he was following me. When I reached the door to the pension he addressed me:

“I would like to ask you something, something that is important to me: Please come to the café every day, if you can. I won’t address you, if you don’t wish me to. Your presence does me good. I entreat you.”

I began going to the café every day. We each sat at our own table, but we would leave together, and he would accompany me part of the way. One day he asked me, “Have you ever thought of getting married?” “No.” He said nothing more that day, but on the following he posed the same question, and I had one of my reactions. “I’m not going to respond. Come take a look at my room.” It was the perfect day to prove my point: everything was in disarray, a dreadful disorder. “You see? Do you believe a girl like me can consider getting married? And I smoke. I smoke like a madman who’s a mad smoker. Look at this.” I opened the wardrobe. None of my clothes were folded, everything was all jumbled up, towels mixed in with stockings, face creams, books with bars of soap, tubes of paint. “In a marriage, everything is order and harmony and I—”

“Have you ever been in love?”

“Never.”

“Don’t you love anything?”

“No.”

“Flowers?”

“No.”

“Music?”

“No.”

“Art!”

“No.”

“Animals?”

“No.”

“But, doves you do.”

“Roasted.”

He laughed and left. I accompanied him down the stairs.

The following day at three o’clock a boy arrived at the pension with two white doves in a cage. “For Senyoreta Marta Coll from Senyor Mârius Roig.” The following day I invited him to dinner: hors d’oeuvres, roasted dove, fruit and cheese for dessert.

“I thought as much.”

“What?”

“That they would be good.”

More than spilling the drink on his trousers, I regretted my crime. We went out for a stroll. As we walked I confessed that I had made the cook at the pension kill the doves. “I’m sure you thought I wouldn’t be capable of doing it.”

•

I didn’t go to the café the following day. I was filled with a strange sense of remorse. I couldn’t sleep that night. I kept thinking that he must have waited for me all afternoon. In the morning, I found a letter beside my café amb llet. “Please forgive my absence yesterday afternoon. It was impossible for me to come. You cannot imagine how I agonized.”

We met that day and were happy to see each other. We had a pleasant time, but I had a terrible dream that night. I was traveling, and everywhere I went — on trains, in hotels, in every country I visited — I encountered two white doves, the feathers on their necks soaked in blood. The afternoon that neither of us had gone to the café changed us. We were different. Closer. As if the day we hadn’t met had brought us together.

“Would you mind marrying a miserable man?”

“Why do you ask such strange questions?”

“Would you answer my question?”

“I can only give you one answer: I don’t know. I’ve never given it a thought. I suppose the only thing I’d ask of a man was that he love me.”

“I love you.”

•

From my diary:

I felt suffused by an infinite emptiness on the afternoon I didn’t go to the café. Terrible. I’ve learned something about myself. I don’t believe in anything. But I think the least one can ask of intelligent people is that they know how to be happy, how to live, how to accept. When we separated, he said, “Thank you.” “Thank you for what?” I asked. “For the trust you have shown me since we met.” He kissed my hand. As he walked away I stood in the center of the sidewalk, looking at him. I followed his shadow, the shadow of the briefcase attached to his body.

•

I moved. I rented a room with a little kitchen in a hotel. Occasionally he would stay for dinner, and then we would go to the cinema. Three months passed.

One day he asked, “Would you like to come to my house?”

“Why?”

“Have you ever realized that when I ask you a question, instead of answering you always say, ‘Why?’ I need you to come. Would you like to come to my house?”

We took a cab. He held my hand the whole time. The house was in the center of town, but in a quiet area. It had a tiny garden in front with two acacia trees and looked quite bourgeois: two stories, with small, silver-colored iron balconies.

“You’ll find it rather disorderly.”

We laughed.

We laughed because we both remembered his first visit to my room in the pension. On the door was a metal plaque: MÂRIUS ROIG, ATTORNEY. An elderly woman came to greet us, and he introduced her: “My family. This is Elvira, and she has been in the house for twenty years.” He introduced me as “My fiancée.”

On the floor in the foyer lay a heap of cement and sand. They must have gotten scattered, because the floor made a scratchy noise as we walked through he house.

“I have asked you to come because I want your opinion. As you can see I am renovating the house and I would like for you to. .”

“Why did you introduce me as your fiancée?”

“Because that is what you are.”

“Since when?”

“Since the day you spilled the drink on me. Ah, do you like the bathroom? Do you want it with a door to the bedroom and a door to the hall, or only to the hall?”

“Two doors.”

A wave of happiness flashed across his eyes, so powerful that it frightened me.

“That is the first time you have dispensed with the ‘Why?’”

“I haven’t dispensed with it. Why do you want my opinion?”

“Can’t you guess?”

“Yes, but I find that you do everything without thinking of me.”

“Quite the contrary. I do everything with you in mind. Is it not obvious?”

•

From my diary:

It was starting to grow dark by the time we left, and he walked me along unfamiliar streets. Suddenly we found ourselves in front of the café. I thought to myself, ah, it’s close to the house. I remembered the winter, that cold afternoon when I was in such a bad mood. It all seemed so far away, a bit sad compared to now. I’m starting to like flowers.

He took me to a concert. It was my first time in a concert hall. The program had Chopin, Ravel, and Mozart. When they played the last violin sonata by Mozart, I almost jumped out of my seat. He took me by the arm and gently pulled me back down. “I love you.” That was the first time he used the familiar form of the pronoun with me.

The world he’s offered me is limpid, and I feel good in it.

•

“What is it you wish to tell me?”

“Don’t laugh.”

“I promise I won’t laugh.”

“I’d like to have two doves.”

And we burst out laughing.

•

The dressmaker came to fit my wedding dress today. I had to stand for two hours. I was close to fainting when she finally said, “We’re through now. Are you very tired?” I was terribly pale, and I felt as if the dressmaker was still sticking me with her pins. I observed myself in the mirror, surrounded by tulle and silk lace, and thought, “A white ghost is looking at me.”

•

My uncle wrote me an exceptionally long letter. In a very formal style, he gave me permission to marry.

•

We were married at the end of summer. It was raining. The leached gray clouds, the tired light made my dress and orange blossoms seem whiter and the plants on either side of the church door greener. I remember the sound of the rain on the umbrellas, the red one as I entered the hotel, the black one as I entered the church. I didn’t want to take the dress off, ever. I felt like a different person in it, as if I were dead or some very old person traveling about after a long absence. We had dinner at home, alone, in the house that still smelled of damp cement and sand and paint. White roses had been arranged in the dining room, red roses in the bedroom. They gave off a caramel scent that annoyed me. He left me alone, and I opened the window and placed the flowers outside. I sat down in an armchair to rest for a moment and fell asleep. When I awoke he was sitting in front of me, gazing at me. I had an irrepressible desire to go out, stroll about, walk with him along the streets in my white dress. It was a dark night. The clock struck one as we left the house, not a soul on the streets. From time to time a gust of wind blew raindrops off the trees and with them the scent of earth and wet grass.

“Are they acacia trees?”

We stopped, and he embraced me.

“Content?”

“Happy.”

We must have been a good fifteen minutes from the house when it started to rain. The drops weren’t large, but they fell so heavily that they started to seep through my silk dress, leaving my back icy cold.

•

We were soaked head to toe by the time we reached the house. As soon as we entered, it began to rain harder. No words can describe how I loved that rain; the dull sound of it made me feel truly at home.

When dawn was breaking, he said, “Call me ‘Amor meu,’ my love.”

“Why?”

“Will you say it?”

“Amor meu.”

•

We spent our honeymoon in Venice and returned in the middle of winter.

•

The house was large. I ruled over the top floor, Elvira the ground floor: the two rooms overlooking the street — my husband’s office and the waiting room — the dining room, the kitchen, and a large parlor with a grand piano. Upstairs were the bedrooms, ours and the guest room; the bath; and a large, well furnished library with two balconies facing west. This is where I spent my time.

Mârius fell ill that winter. Influenza complicated by bronchopneumonia. That was when I met Roger, Mârius’s doctor, a friendly, optimistic fellow. Mârius considered him his best friend, his only friend really. One day when Mârius was convalescing, I went to the library to look for a book. When I couldn’t find it, I remembered that he had been reading it, and I thought he might have it in the briefcase he always kept by his side. I returned to our bedroom; he was seated facing the balcony, seemingly asleep. The briefcase was in the corner. I opened it and caught sight of a packet of letters between some of the files. A packet of mauve-colored envelopes, thirty perhaps. I’m not sure. I only know, I only recall that Mârius stood up quickly, came to me, and took the briefcase from my hands.

“What are you looking for?”

“The book you were reading, that you asked me for and I couldn’t find it in the library.”

“Why would you look for it here?”

•

That night I began to think about the letters and Mârius’s reaction. Whose were they? His? Had they been entrusted to him by a client? I sketched an entire novel around the letters. I was still awake when the sun rose. From the moment I met Mârius — since that day at the café—my memory of him had always been associated with the briefcase in his hand. Especially my visual memory.

Everything changed. Those letters. . he had taken the briefcase from my hand so abruptly. The letters represented something. What?

It was my birthday, and Roger was coming to dinner. I had been alone all afternoon. I had spent the time getting ready for the evening. I was going to wear what I had bought in Venice, the black crêpe dress and the open-toe shoes, their heels encrusted with green stones. I had pinned up my hair, had carefully made up my face and painted my fingernails. Just as I was about to put the dress on, Mârius came in. He had entered so quietly that he frightened me.

“Today’s your birthday, no?”

“Yes sir.”

“How many years?”

“Many.”

“Splendid.”

Splendid. He handed me a little box. I immediately thought: a piece of jewelry. I untied the gold ribbon and removed the tissue paper. Inside the velvet-lined box lay a diamond dove with its wings extended.

“I remember how you longed for a pair of doves; perhaps you will have the second one next year.”

I hugged him tightly, very tightly. The room was saturated by shadows and a gray, fleeting light. “Amor meu,” I whispered. I felt him bristle. I had the impression he considered those two words sacred, reserved only for the dark hours of the night. I was filled with anguish.

•

I forgot about the letters for a few days, but another incident made me wish to see them. I needed to discover who they were from and what they said. I knew practically nothing about Mârius’s life. I had never dared to ask him about his past, partly from discretion, partly because I was afraid of being disillusioned. I wondered why he had never spontaneously confided in me. Two weeks after my birthday, Mârius was called to the phone while we were having lunch. His briefcase was standing in the corner. I stood up without giving it a thought. Had I been told that lightning would strike me if I approached the briefcase, I would have done the same. It was locked. When I turned around, Elvira was standing by the table, looking at me. I was vexed and hated her. Suddenly I felt alone in a foreign house. Everything seemed strange and hostile. The walls, the furniture, those two people who could draw near without a sound, startle me, frighten me.

My desire to possess the letters was so intense that I was willing to risk everything.

From my diary:

I did something I should never have done. Something that did no one any good, but has hurt me tremendously. I took three letters from the packet. Just as I had resolved, I took the first and last letters, and one from the middle. The last was dated six months before I met Mârius. It tells of an affair that had ended. It is a letter of farewell. I have burned all three of them.

•

It isn’t true, I didn’t burn them. I had taken them while Mârius was in the bathroom undressing. The briefcase lay at the foot of the bed, locked as before. But I had anticipated that and calculated I could squeeze my hand under the flap and pull them out. My heart was pounding furiously at the thought of seizing them, my pulse too. I tiptoed barefoot to the briefcase, ready to act. I knew where they were and slipped my hand in. I pulled out the first letter in the packet, but there wasn’t much room beneath the flap and the enveloped got crumpled, making a noise. I held my breath. I reached in again and pulled out the letter at the end of the packet. Then I removed one from the middle. When I was ready to stand up, I couldn’t; my legs had no strength. I couldn’t think clearly. I could only feel the three letters in my hand; everything whirled around me. I hid them under the rug and, with a huge effort, returned to bed. A moment later Mârius opened the bathroom door and the light fanned out to the foot of the bed.

Mârius had been asleep for a while. He had turned on his side facing me, and I could hear him breathing rhythmically. I was suddenly full of regret. I struggled to compose myself, but I couldn’t hold back the tears. I wept silently, the tears gushing out. From time to time I felt one dropping on the pillow. “What’s the matter?” How I wished I could simply have disappeared. Mârius pulled me toward him and held me. “It’s only nerves, only nerves.” He ran his hand through my hair and kissed me on the forehead. I was on the point of confessing what I’d done, telling him how distressed I was, asking him for the love of God to tear up the letters, throw away the briefcase that disturbed my rest. The mere sight of it upset me. He went back to sleep, but I lay awake all night. I finally dozed off in the morning. Mârius had already left when Elvira brought my breakfast. I couldn’t eat a thing. My mouth had a bitter taste, my tongue felt thick. I took one sip of coffee and got dressed. Why couldn’t I read the letters at home? I don’t know. Once I was dressed, I collected them, placed them at the bottom of my purse, and left the house.

Few people were on the street, but I felt like they were all observing me, could see the three stolen letters at the bottom of my purse. Somehow I found myself at a metro station; I don’t remember how I arrived there, but it seemed like a good place to read the letters. Who would take note of me seated on a bench with the hustle and bustle of trains and people? Then I caught sight of Roger approaching. I don’t know what expression of panic my face must have reflected; all I know is that his was filled with anxiety.

“Are you ill?”

“No, but I’ve been terribly nervous for some time now and I can’t sleep.”

He smiled benevolently.

“I can see that I need to pay you a visit.”

“Any time you wish.”

His presence calmed me, and I was sorry for him to leave.

“You’re not getting on the train?”

“No. I’m waiting for a friend.”

He waved to me through the window, and I continued sitting on the bench, not daring to open my purse.

When I emerged from the metro, I had the impression of arriving in a big city for the first time. The houses, the light, the sky, nothing was familiar. I felt the way a convalescent must feel after a long illness. I strolled about like an automaton. Instinctively I entered a café, as I had done in my student days. I sat down, removed the letters from my purse, and began reading them, as if the contents were completely irrelevant to me. The first read:

Dearest,

I can still imagine you at the station, I can hear your voice. You should not have come. I am obsessed by our parting, and a terrible sadness consumes me because we will never again live as we have during this time. Such brief happiness. Write to me, above all, write to me. If I had to be punished, the greatest punishment would be never to receive any news of you. Write to me in care of Eliana Porta, at her address. She is completely trustworthy. (Her address followed). I will never forget the months we have lived together. Remember this always: “I will never forget.” Elisa.

The second letter was longer and sadder.

Amor meu: life is so painful that I do not know when I will ever again find a moment of joy. I have given a lot of thought to what you propose, but it is not possible. I cannot ruin the life of a man who has placed all his trust in me. I cannot. Even yesterday, after a terrible night, I got up, determined to explain the situation. I couldn’t. Perhaps because I am weak, amor meu. It is too complicated to explain why we will be spending time in X. Nothing could hurt me as much. Eliana is coming with us. Write to me under her name as soon as you can. An occasional letter from you will comfort me in a way that no one, perhaps not even you, can imagine.

I realize the risk involved, but if you could come. . Just once. Do you recall the Hotel de Llevant, where we first loved each other, where we met? “Are you staying at the hotel?” “No, I live in a house on Avinguda de les Acàcies. I am meeting a friend, a woman who is staying here, in room number 10.” “Be careful not to speak poorly of me to your friend; I am in number 12.” Do you remember room 10, the balcony over the garden with the climbing jasmine, the sea?

I didn’t finish reading it. I wanted to see the other one, from the end of the packet, which I assumed would provide the most information, the most insight into that morsel of life from which I was barred. It was last letter of the story.

Amor meu, now we will not even have the consolation of writing to each other. Eliana is going away with her family for a while, but she is uncertain for how long. We will be left without even the comfort of seeing the familiar handwriting, only a shared past, fragmentary memories, a few sweet hours that slowly fade. You are free. If you despair, think of me, of my sacrifice, and remember that I suffer as much as you. Above all, remember that you have been, and will be, my only love. Elisa.

It was lunchtime and people had stopped work; the café had gradually filled by the time I left. It was late when I arrived home, and Mârius was waiting for me. He was concerned, had not wanted to eat without me. When he caught sight of me, he asked if I was ill. Could he have realized the three letters were missing? I could not be sure, and if he had realized, he dissimulated so well that he will never know how grateful I was. Yes, I was ill. Roger came that evening.

“I ran into your wife this morning and told her I would stop by to pay a visit.”

He prescribed a tranquilizer and recommended complete rest. I remained at home for a week, moving between my bed and the library. Before he left each day, Mârius would come to ask me how I was feeling. Sometimes he brought me flowers and magazines; his attentiveness was touching. As soon as I heard the front door close, I would remove the letters from my purse. Why had I not sought a different hiding place? I read and reread them. I knew them by heart. I am convinced that the days of “complete rest” were terrible for me. I tortured myself thinking about the woman that Mârius had loved. That he continued to love. That he loved. If he didn’t, why would he keep the letters, never letting them out of his sight? I was ravaged by an unbearable sense of inferiority. I felt as insignificant as a speck of dust. Why had he married me? Out of spite? Why was he lonely? What was I doing there, weary and heavyhearted? What was it that bound me to the four walls that surrounded me? Soon I began to live with a single obsession: meeting that woman, knowing what color her hair was, her eyes. What if it wasn’t over? And if there were more letters? When Elvira entered the room, she seemed like a jailer, and I was sure that from deep within her small, steely eyes she could see my truth and was glad.

The first day I left the house, I felt strong and young. Oh, yes. I would win. But it was essential that I meet her in order to know what weapon to choose. Strolling through the crowds, surrounded by noise, the brightness of the radiant day, I realized that I loved my husband deeply. I hailed a taxi and gave Eliana’s address. During the days I was shut in the house I had planned what I would do. Surely Eliana had not disappeared for good. The letter said she “was going away with her family for a while, but she is uncertain for how long.” As I crossed the threshold of the building, my hands were as icy as the day I read the letters in the café, when I was overwhelmed by a sense of absence, of not being the one in control and making the decisions, feeling that I was someone else obeying orders given by myself. I walked up the stairs to the second floor. My icy hands began to sweat. I rang the bell. A large woman opened the door with a smile. “Senyoreta Eliana?” “Sorry, try ringing the apartment next door, maybe the neighbors who moved in when she left can help you.” If the kindhearted woman, full of consideration, had not stood in the door, waiting for me to ring, I would have rushed down the stairs breathlessly. But I rang. A girl, about eleven, opened the door. She had plaid ribbons around her braids and a vivacious face filled with curiosity. “Senyoreta Eliana?” She didn’t seem to understand. “I mean, the senyoreta who used to live in this apartment. Would you happen to know where she is now? Did she leave her address?” The girl ran inside, calling, “Mamà, Mamà.” A moment passed. The neighbor was still standing at her door. Soon I heard voices from the back of the apartment and steps approaching. A youngish woman appeared, in a bathrobe, a jar of face cream in her hand. As she talked, she continued to plunge two fingers in the cream, spreading it on her face with circular movements. “Looking for Eliana? Yes, she left us her address in case there was a message; you see, the concierge didn’t much care for her. But she moved such a long time ago that I’m afraid I’ve lost it. You know how it is with children. In any event, check with the concierge; maybe she’ll be nice to you. I’m sure she has it.” She closed the door with a “Come along, girl.” The two women and the girl disappeared as if they had been sucked inside.

The concierge had gone out for a moment, so I waited. She arrived, weighted down by packages and a basket full of vegetables. “How can I help you?” she asked as she placed the packages on a table, without even a glance at me. When she had finished, she looked me straight in the face. “What is it?” “By any chance would you have Senyoreta Eliana’s address?” “Ah, Eliana. Yet again! I thought the fuss was finally over.” “If I’m inconveniencing you. .” “No, not you. Since she moved, not a month goes by without someone asking for her or bringing her letters.” “Letters?” I asked, my heart pounding. “Ah yes, the letters, the mystery surrounding them. .” “So you have her address?” “Hers? I can give you her friend’s address if you wish. She used to stop by here quite often. Always in a hurry, never even a ‘Bon dia.’ Who do these ladies think they are? I too can go around with my head high.” Still grumbling, she went inside and came back out with a slip of paper in her hand. “Here, you see? Elisa R., Carrer Tenerife 26.” My head began to spin, and I had to lean against the wall. Realizing I felt ill, the concierge had me sit down and brought me a cordial. I remember a bouquet of artificial roses in the center of the table, the sideboard lined with blue glasses. Through an open door at the end of the hall I could see a patio and hear pigeons cooing.

From my diary:

A garden. A cool, shady garden. A garden with no flowers. Wisteria climbing the trellis by the front door, the occasional rustling of leaves. A Japanese room. A screen showing pink ibis, their wings extended, surrounded by yellow chrysanthemums. A small black lacquered table with mother of pearl inlay. Almond branches. A magnificent tiger skin lying on the champagne-colored rug. Rare luxury, a bit overpowering. A woman much older than me. White skin. Very white. Black, rather small eyes and smooth, arched eyebrows. Tall and thin. A voice. . Yes, above all the voice. Just hearing it would make you fall in love with her. As I faced her, I was forced to view myself: a disorderly, brusque, temperamental girl. A failure. How can one possibly acquire her degree of poise and elegance? Somehow I managed to stammer, “I hope you will forgive me. I announced that Mârius Roig had sent me; that’s not the case, nor is he ill. I have come because I wanted to. I am his wife.” At the very least I expected a word, a change of expression, a bit of curiosity. She gazed at me, unperturbed. Had I said nothing more, I am sure the visit would have ended here. “I’ve come because I wanted to meet you. It was such an overwhelming desire that I couldn’t control it.” “What is it that you wish to know?” “Nothing.” “What do you want?” “Nothing.” “Only to meet me?” “Only that.” “Has he spoken to you of me?” I didn’t reply. “Is it because you feel that I stand between you and him?” “No.” The question had been so humiliating that I’d been forced to lie. “So?” “If I ask you something directly, will you respond?” “What is it?” “Do you love him?” It was as if the ibis on the screen had moved. It took her a while to reply. I could see her searching for something that would sound good, diplomatic. “Some things never die.” I wanted to applaud. Even though I saw that she had chosen her reply as one might choose the smallest needle amongst many, still, she had hurt me. She had said it to hurt me and had succeeded. She spoke the words so calmly, with such control, such a penetrating voice. She hurt me, but I knew it was true. I felt as if suddenly I had been pinned to the wall and left there.

•

I was consumed by the desire to die. Not to kill myself, simply to die. To kill yourself you must have the will, the energy. To die, you need nothing. Suddenly I found support in Elvira, and here I had always believed her an enemy.

“I remember the day this Senyora Elisa first visited the house, enveloped in fur and perfume. I think she came about an inheritance. She completely transformed Senyor, like turning a sock inside out. How he changed! He was so cheerful, always in a good mood, but after that hardly a ‘Bon dia’ to me. Everything went smoothly while her husband was in the sanatorium. Visits, phone calls, urgent letters. Oh yes, she came to the house. She’d march right in as if she owned it, giving orders like she was the mestressa. She showed up and wrecked Mârius’s life, poor Senyor. Her goal was to make him fall in love with her. She needed a man, forgive me for being so frank, but lots of women are like that. Did they take a trip together? Many. You have to remember that the affair lasted five years. Straight away I saw how selfish she was. And all during this time, she’d visit her husband. She’d go to the sanatorium, sometimes stay a week. I could tell just by looking at Senyor’s face. When she was away, he wouldn’t set foot out of the house, all sad and dull, looking like a sick animal. But the husband regained his health, and she began to withdraw. With plenty of fancy excuses, she abandoned Senyor like an old shoe. But you shouldn’t be thinking about these things. Can’t you see how much he loves you? As soon as I laid eyes on you, I thought to myself ‘He’ll be happy with this girl.’ You can tell right away you’re a fine person. But it’s not good to be sad, believe me, it’s not good.”

That is how I learned what it is to have “seny,” good sense.

•

I went out this afternoon with Elvira. We visited her niece Maria, who is married and has an eleven-month-old baby. The sun was scorching, not a bit of air. We crossed a patio at the back of which was a printing press. Through the open window you could see an office and hear the sound of a linotype. To the right of the patio was a glass door, a window with red geraniums on either side of it. We went straight into the dining room. The table was covered with a blue-and-white checkered oilcloth. Maria was sewing. A cradle covered by a bride’s veil stood in the corner, and a sewing machine beneath the window. We had a bite to eat. Maria had fixed sandwiches and prepared fresh peaches and pears doused in sweet wine and sugar. The baby woke up. His skin was like milk, his eyes like stars. He was whimpering. He must have been hot and in a bad mood. Maria breastfed him. Her husband came in at six. He works at the printing office. He went off to wash and change. When he returned to the dining room, he was naked from the waist up, wearing blue trousers. Maria handed the boy to Elvira and served her husband some fruit salad. As she did so, he put his arm around her and pulled her forcefully toward him. “Keep still,” she exclaimed, but she didn’t move away. He ran his hand through her hair, tangling it. Then she sat down. But her eyes were fixed on her husband’s chest, staring at his dark, glossy skin, fascinated.

•

Sometimes, when I am alone, or when I am bathing, or when Mârius falls asleep before me I think: my husband. And when he sleeps, I place my hand on his side and feel his rhythmic breathing against my palm and think: my husband.

•

My first reaction was rather vulgar: I wanted him to find me attractive. I had never been concerned about appearance, but now I needed a weapon. Clothes. I would turn myself into an object of admiration. In three months I succeeded in becoming different. I devoted all my time to me: my hands, his eyes, my body. Roger fell in love with me. The only thing I accomplished was something I didn’t wish. I was in love with my husband, and I wanted him to love me deeply. Roger’s devotion to me led me to realize that I represented very little to Mârius. I had entered his life in a natural, easy way, like the sun that rises every morning. He had me so close by that he didn’t notice me.

I would have liked to leave the house and him. Had I never known Mârius, I could have. Where could I go? Back to my silly art classes? To my uncle’s house, which I had left because we didn’t get along? From time to time a secret hope came over me. What if everything were dead? What if the Senyora, the ibis, the romantic trips were all dead and buried? But if everything were dead, he wouldn’t keep the letters. They were his treasure, his obsession. The briefcase, the letters inside. Briefcase and letters always close by, the key in his pocket. Had he realized that three were missing? Why had he allowed his past to become my present? Why had he allowed my love to. .?

I was with Roger on one occasion and asked, “Mârius took a trip to Italy, didn’t he?”

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing.”

Some days I was filled with lethargy. To get out of bed and dress was torture. Why had I allowed a ghost to separate us? To keep from thinking about her and the letters, I became determined to love him desperately. As if each night of love making were the last. The more my passion was excited, the more depressed I became thinking about that woman. His loyalty to her memory stood between us, breathing gently and, no doubt, panting.

One day I couldn’t bear it any longer, and I brought up the subject. It was a gentle spring afternoon, like those I used to enjoy with him.

“I’ve never demanded anything of you. May I ask you something?”

“What?” he said, glancing at me in alarm, as if he guessed what I meant.

“The letters.”

“What letters?”

“Your letters, the ones you always carry in your briefcase.”

“I don’t know what you are referring to.”

I immediately understood, yet still I insisted.

“I realize that I should make an effort to ignore them. I wish I could. It’s impossible. They exist, and they cause me pain. Tear them up. I beg of you, tear them up.”

He reached into his jacket pocket: “Here, we are going to the theater this evening with Roger. You need a distraction. I think you will enjoy it.” And he walked away. When he reached the door, he turned, “Never speak of this again. I would appreciate it.”

Mârius always kissed me on the forehead when he left. Not that day.

•

Roger, dearest Roger. Until now I have tried to be objective in everything I have written. But I can no longer. I began writing this account for me, but in the end, it is for you. Because you have loved me. Because I have hurt you and you don’t deserve it. Because I need a friend; I need to feel that I am not alone. I remember you with affection and that memory helps me now. But I have never loved you. Despite the hatred I now feel for Mârius, I have loved only him. He has been the center of my life.

Do you recall the performance of Ondina? When the years have passed, if you should think of me, remember me as I was that night. I made you believe things that did not exist. Forgive me. I dressed for you, I smiled for you. Please forgive me. For the first time that night I thought seriously of killing myself. They say that a suicide’s last wish always comes true. I thought of killing myself as an act of vengeance against Mârius, to ruin his life, so that he would love me more than. .

Do you remember the dress? Blue. You said, “Waves.” And I wanted to die. I sat between you: Mârius on my right, you on my left. I was wearing the diamond dove that Mârius had given me in my hair. Men looked at me. You commented on it. Mârius seemed absent. “He’s thinking about the letters. Thinking about her. When I am dead he will never think of her again.” You gave me a prescription for gardenal tablets. I wanted two tubes of them. A few days after you prescribed the first, I told you I had lost the prescription. I thought one might not be enough. I wanted to be sure. I wanted to die. I thought of Odette, who was taking a course in ethics at the Sorbonne. She didn’t die. I didn’t want anyone to be affected — as I had been when I visited Odette — by a person who slowly returns from death, her face all green, in a large hospital room filled with rows of beds.

Do you remember the summer in Pyla? It was my last effort to live. The smell of pine trees, the dark dunes, the lichen the sea spewed out every night. The couple we talked about. Lovers. What mysterious secret had they discovered? The soul or the flesh?

I know that I am inexperienced, that I should have accepted what was handed to me, not looked beyond, not tried to speculate. Perhaps happiness consists in the capacity for resignation. But I want more. I would have wished for the letters to have ceased to exist. Her as well. For a few days I succeeded in forgetting. Only pine trees, sea, sun, silence. My husband sleeping beside me. “If I commit suicide, he will never again sleep like this.”

You said, “Acute neurasthenia. Your nervous system is such that even a change in light can unbalance it.” Do you understand now, Roger, what was making me ill? We came back in September, and I went to our café. I wanted to relive that first day right down to the smallest detail, poisoning myself even more. I returned to her house, to catch a glimpse of her from the street, to torment myself. The trees were just beginning to turn golden. I returned to the pension where I had lived for three months, truly lived, without anguish, without suspicions, sure of everything. Of him and of myself.

•

From my diary:

At times I am almost delirious with the desire to find someone who will love me deeply. But this someone could only be Mârius during the period that we were happy.

•

I told Elvira, “I’ll be home late this evening, and as soon as I come in, I want you to tell Mârius that he has a phone call.” I had already taken my little suitcase to the station with the black crêpe dress and the shoes I had bought in Venice.

When Mârius entered the room, Elvira followed him and announced:

“You are wanted on the phone.”

“I’m coming.”

I would have wished to gaze at him longer, but I had only a quick glimpse of his shoulders as he walked out of the dining room. Without hesitating I picked up the briefcase and fled. Nothing that I left behind exists, not my house, not my husband. Absolutely nothing.

•

I am at the Hotel de Llevant, in room number 12. I arrived at midnight. The room was occupied. I couldn’t have it until noon today. This allowed me time to stroll about and write. It’s almost like a short holiday. I have seen the boulevard with the wisteria and the house. I recognized it because the name is printed in gold lettering on the column to the right of the gate. Before I die, lying on the bed, I endeavor to hear the voices of the man and woman who had loved each other in this room with its art nouveau decor. I know her voice. His is more familiar to me than any other. She called him “Amor meu.” He would make me whisper it to him in the dark, so he could imagine that I was her. At the head of the bed are two intertwined lilies. Two large lilies. They also adorn the top of the wardrobe with the mirror and the back of the chairs. Fortunately, there is a wing chair covered in velvet, a faded garnet color, its armrests worn smooth. I sit down in it and close my eyes. I have all the letters on my lap. All of them. The first three as well. I laughed when I left the house, the briefcase in my hand. I feel like laughing now too, a clear, healthy laugh. Everything makes me laugh: the two of them and me and my regrettable suicide, all of it so passé. The mere fact that someone makes us suffer should send us straight to our deaths. I am alone, the letters on my lap, surrounded by wooden lilies and an almost real hatred. I will die wearing my black crêpe dress and the shoes I adore with the heels encrusted with green stones.

I stand to look at myself in the mirror, filling it with darkness. Slowly, very slowly, my bridal gown floats past, empty, like a spindled cloud, followed by a bouquet of fresh roses. But then it is me in the mirror again, the veritable ghost that I am, and the ghost is thinking, “It’s a shame this girl will die.”

I read the letters, one by one, in order, conscientiously. All of them ridiculous, like love itself. One speaks of Italy, of Florence, of exceptional days in Pisa, and in Venice. How I laughed. With the laugh I used to have when I would suddenly realize in the middle of a lesson that my professor was wearing a dirty tie or looked hungry. My wedding trip was like a pilgrimage to the Holy Land. Milan, Lake Como, Pisa, Florence. . Oh, I forgot Venice. Ladies and gentlemen, the water, though full of history, is not transparent. No, it is rather like an opal, disfiguring the faces that it mirrors. I am not indulging in literature. Senyors, all of you should travel to Italy, with a woman friend, with your wife. There will be a mirror for every face. The water flows for everyone.

When you receive this manuscript and packet of letters, Roger, I will be dead. Return the letters to Mârius. They are all there. Tell him that he has the contempt of a twenty-year-old girl. No, don’t tell him. It will be abundantly clear to him. I know these letters will scald his hands. That is all I wish.