gravely. He betrayed no surprise:
— Aren't you going to say 'poor little thing'?
The sight of this short man with his protruding bottom and plaintive eyes that spoke of timid continence left her amused and bewildered. She said nothing. Then slowly, in the same tone of voice:
— Poor little thing.
He laughed, considered the joke over and done with and turned and made for the door. Joana's eyes followed him, she leaned slightly forwards to get a better look the moment he withdrew from the table. She confronted him erect and aloof, her eyes wide open and bright. She looked at the table, rummaged for a second, picked up a small, thick book. No sooner had he put his hand on the latch than he received it on the back of his neck, with full force. He turned round at once, his hand on his head, wide-eyed with pain and fright. Joana remained in the same position. Well, she thought, at least he's lost that nauseating expression. It's only right that an old man should suffer.
She said in a loud, ingratiating voice:
— Forgive me. There's a tiny lizard there, right over the door. — A brief pause. — I missed my aim.
The old man continued to stare at her without understanding. Then a vague terror gripped him, confronted by that smiling face.
— Goodbye... It was nothing... My God!
— Goodbye...
When the door closed, she lingered there with that smile on her face. She gave a little shrug. She went up to the window, her expression weary and vacant:
— Perhaps I should listen to some music.
— Yes, it's true, I threw the book at him, Joana replied in answer to Otávio's question.
He tried to get the upper hand:
— But that's not what you told the old man!
— No, I lied.
Otávio stared at her, looked in vain for some remorse, for some sign of confession.
— Only after having lived more or better, shall I succeed in discounting what is human, Joana sometimes told him. Human — me. Human — people taken separately as individuals. I must forget them because my relations with them can only be sentimental. If I go in search of them, I demand or give them the equivalent of those familiar words we are always hearing, fraternity and justice. If they have any real value, it's not because they constitute the apex but rather the base of a triangle. They are the condition and not the fact in itself. Yet they end up by swamping our every thought and emotion because fraternity and justice are unattainable, they are contrary to nature. Despite everything, they are fatal, given the state of promiscuity in which we live. In this state, hatred transforms itself into love, which never really goes beyond a search for love, never realized except in theory, as in Christianity.
— Oh, spare me, Otávio cried out. She would have liked to stop but weariness and the excitement provoked by the man's presence stimulated her mind, and the words poured out endlessly.
— Discounting what is human is difficult, she continued, difficult to escape this atmosphere of frustrated revolt -adolescence — this solidarity with men who share the same sense of frustration and failure. Yet how nice it would be to build something pure, free from false, sublimated love, free from the fear of not loving... The fear of not loving, worse than the fear of not being loved...
Oh, spare me, Joana could hear in Otávio's silence. But at the same time she liked to think aloud, to reason things out spontaneously, simply following her intuition. Sometimes, even for sheer pleasure, she invented arguments: if a stone falls then that stone exists, there was a force that caused it to fall, a place from which it fell, a place through which it fell — I believe that nothing has escaped the nature of the fact, save for the mystery itself of the fact. But now she was also talking because she did not know how to surrender and, above all, because she merely foresaw, without understanding, that Otávio could embrace her and bring her peace.
— One night, no sooner
— Aren't you going to say 'poor little thing'?
The sight of this short man with his protruding bottom and plaintive eyes that spoke of timid continence left her amused and bewildered. She said nothing. Then slowly, in the same tone of voice:
— Poor little thing.
He laughed, considered the joke over and done with and turned and made for the door. Joana's eyes followed him, she leaned slightly forwards to get a better look the moment he withdrew from the table. She confronted him erect and aloof, her eyes wide open and bright. She looked at the table, rummaged for a second, picked up a small, thick book. No sooner had he put his hand on the latch than he received it on the back of his neck, with full force. He turned round at once, his hand on his head, wide-eyed with pain and fright. Joana remained in the same position. Well, she thought, at least he's lost that nauseating expression. It's only right that an old man should suffer.
She said in a loud, ingratiating voice:
— Forgive me. There's a tiny lizard there, right over the door. — A brief pause. — I missed my aim.
The old man continued to stare at her without understanding. Then a vague terror gripped him, confronted by that smiling face.
— Goodbye... It was nothing... My God!
— Goodbye...
When the door closed, she lingered there with that smile on her face. She gave a little shrug. She went up to the window, her expression weary and vacant:
— Perhaps I should listen to some music.
— Yes, it's true, I threw the book at him, Joana replied in answer to Otávio's question.
He tried to get the upper hand:
— But that's not what you told the old man!
— No, I lied.
Otávio stared at her, looked in vain for some remorse, for some sign of confession.
— Only after having lived more or better, shall I succeed in discounting what is human, Joana sometimes told him. Human — me. Human — people taken separately as individuals. I must forget them because my relations with them can only be sentimental. If I go in search of them, I demand or give them the equivalent of those familiar words we are always hearing, fraternity and justice. If they have any real value, it's not because they constitute the apex but rather the base of a triangle. They are the condition and not the fact in itself. Yet they end up by swamping our every thought and emotion because fraternity and justice are unattainable, they are contrary to nature. Despite everything, they are fatal, given the state of promiscuity in which we live. In this state, hatred transforms itself into love, which never really goes beyond a search for love, never realized except in theory, as in Christianity.
— Oh, spare me, Otávio cried out. She would have liked to stop but weariness and the excitement provoked by the man's presence stimulated her mind, and the words poured out endlessly.
— Discounting what is human is difficult, she continued, difficult to escape this atmosphere of frustrated revolt -adolescence — this solidarity with men who share the same sense of frustration and failure. Yet how nice it would be to build something pure, free from false, sublimated love, free from the fear of not loving... The fear of not loving, worse than the fear of not being loved...
Oh, spare me, Joana could hear in Otávio's silence. But at the same time she liked to think aloud, to reason things out spontaneously, simply following her intuition. Sometimes, even for sheer pleasure, she invented arguments: if a stone falls then that stone exists, there was a force that caused it to fall, a place from which it fell, a place through which it fell — I believe that nothing has escaped the nature of the fact, save for the mystery itself of the fact. But now she was also talking because she did not know how to surrender and, above all, because she merely foresaw, without understanding, that Otávio could embrace her and bring her peace.
— One night, no sooner
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