The Selected Stories of Mercè Rodoreda. Mercè Rodoreda
She hesitated a moment. Should I break it? I’m so much a creature of my own time, my own time. She lowered her arm slowly and threw the mirror on the bed. She heard steps along the corridor. It was her son. He must have left work early.
“Elena, do you know if Mamà went to the doctor’s today?
The doctor, the doctor. That would be the dinner conversation.
She picked up the cookie crumbs that had fallen into her lap, raised the blinds, and threw them into the garden.
Happiness
Last night, before she fell asleep, she had realized winter was almost over. “No more cold,” she thought, stretching out between the sheets. As if from a limpid world, the clear sounds of the night reached her, restored to their original purity. The ticking of the clock, almost imperceptible during the day, filled the room with a nervous throb, causing her to imagine a clock in a land of giants. The steps on the pavement sounded like an assassin, or a madman escaped from an asylum, and her heart and pulse beat faster. The sound of a woodworm gnawing was the herald of some imminent danger: perhaps the insistent pounding was a friendly ghost endeavoring to keep her awake and vigilant. With, not fear, but a sense of dread, she moved closer to Jaume and snuggled up to him. She felt protected, her mind free of thought.
The moonlight, blending with the glow of the street lamp, reached the foot of the bed, and every now and then a gust of fresh air, full of night perfume, brushed her face. She savored the caress and compared its freshness to the freshness of other spring breezes. The flowers will come, she thought, and blue days with long, pink sunsets and warm waves of sun and pale dresses. Overcrowded trains will carry people whose eyes will shine with the excitement of the big holidays. All the things that accompany fair weather will appear, to be taken away in the autumn by a strong wind and three heavy rainstorms.
She lay there awake in the middle of the night finding pleasure in the thought of leaving winter behind. She raised her arm and shook her hand: the metal jangle made her smile. She stretched voluptuously. The bracelet shone in the light of the arc lamp and the moon. It had been hers since that afternoon, and she watched it shining against her skin, as if it were part of her. She made it jangle again. She wanted three of them. All the same. Three chains to be worn together.
“Can’t you sleep?”
“I will in a moment.”
If he could know how much she loved him! For everything. Because he was so good, because he knew how to hold her tenderly as if he were afraid of breaking her, with more love in his heart than in his eyes—and she was one to know if there was love in his eyes. Because he lived only for her, the same way she had lived for her cat when she was little: anxiously. She had suffered because she was afraid her cat suffered. With troubled eyes, she would anxiously look for her mother: “He finished the milk; he’s still hungry . . . His neck’s caught in the ball of yarn; he’s going to choke . . . He’s playing with the fringe on the curtain, and when he hears someone he stops and pretends he doesn’t notice, but he’s so scared his heart’s pounding . . .”
She felt like kissing him, not letting him sleep, pestering him until in the end he would want the kisses as much as she did. But the night was high, the air sweet, and the bracelet shiny . . . Little by little she lost consciousness and fell asleep.
•
But now that it was morning, she was miserable. From the bathroom came the sound of running water. It was pouring into the sink. She recognized the unmistakable clink of his razor being placed on the glass shelf, then the bottle of cologne. Every unambiguous sound conveyed the precision of his actions.
She was uncomfortable lying facedown, elbows propped on the bed, hands pressed against her cheeks. She was counting the arrondissements in a Paris guidebook. One, two, three . . . The sound of the water distracted her, and she lost count. She could only find nineteen. Where did she go wrong? She started with Île Saint-Louis and started around. Four, five, six . . . The tender colors calmed her anger. The blues, pinks, purples, the splashes of green from the parks, all of them reminded her of the end of summer, when every tree turned gold or copper. On other days, the stream of water from the next room brought a rush of summer happiness, evoking memories of wide rivers reflecting low-flying birds, of white coves with seaweed on the sand, but today the sound filled her with melancholy.
Of course, it was ridiculous to worry about a morning without kisses, and she deliberately chose the word “worry” to avoid a harsher one that would give rise to waves and waves of resentment. But she had always loved the first morning kisses . . . They tasted of sleep, as if discarded sleep returned through his lips and reached her closed eyes that wanted to sleep again. Those playful kisses were worth everything. One, two, three, four, five . . . Île Saint-Louis, Châtelet, Rue Montyon . . . seventeen, eighteen . . .
Now the shower. She could see him under it, as the drizzle began, his eyes shut, groping for the towel he had left on the rim of the bathtub. When he found it, he would hold out his arm so it wouldn’t get wet; then he would wait five minutes. Peculiar habits. Like eating candy while taking a bath: your body soaking, your mouth full of sweetness.
It’s over, she thought. Love is ending. And this is how it ends, quietly. The more she imagined him calmly under the shower, the angrier she became. She would leave him. She could see herself packing her bags. And the details were so real, her imagination evoked them so vividly, that she could almost feel the folded, soft, silky clothes in her fingertips, the clothes she regretfully placed in the suitcase that was now too small for all her things. Oh, yes, she would leave. She could see herself at the door. She would leave at daybreak. She would go down the stairs without making any noise, almost on tiptoe.
But he would hear her. He wouldn’t have been woken by her light step, but rather by a mysterious feeling of loneliness. In a frenzy he would rush down the stairs after her and take her by the arm as she reached the first floor. The conversation would be brief, the silences more eloquent than the words.
“I’m leaving you,” she would say in a low voice.
“What are you saying?” he would ask in amazement.
Could she leave so much tenderness? He would look at her with tremendous sadness: so many words, so many Paris streets, so many days drawing to a close at a time when they were just beginning to dream of their love. She wasn’t counting now. She was looking at the map. In front of every important building he had told her: “I love you.” He had said “I love you” while crossing the street, seated at an outdoor café, under every tree in the Tuileries. He would write “I love you” on a scrap of paper, roll it up, and secretly slip it in her hand when she least expected it. He would write “I love you” on a little piece of wood that he tore off a matchbox or on the foggy window of a bus. That’s how he would say “I love you”: joyfully, not expecting anything in return, as if happiness was simply being able to say “I love you.” Here, where her eyes now rested, at the tip of Île Saint-Louis—the water and sky so blue, the horizon and the river so tenderly blue—here he had also said “I love you.” She could see Place de la Concorde on a rainy evening. Lights were reflected on the glistening pavement, and beneath each lamp was born a river of light. She could see an umbrella approaching, as if she were looking down from a roof. At the end of each rib of the tiny umbrella—between the ribs, too—there stood a drop of water. Paris: roofs, chimneys, ribbons of fog, deep streets, bridges over still water. The bad weather had kept inside all the women who knit in parks near their blond children and had left the lovers outside—together with the roses and tulips in gardens. It had left the two of them under the umbrella with their newly exchanged “I love you”s and their tremendous nostalgia for love.
While still on the landing of the first floor, she would tell him: “If we don’t love each other anymore, why do you want me to stay?” She would make a point of using the plural, not because it was true, but so he would see that her decision was irrevocable, and so he would be forced to understand that there was no other solution. On the street she would encounter rain. Not the rain of lovers, but the rain of those made sad by life’s repeated bitterness, the rain that brings mud and cold, dirty rain that makes the poor complain because it