had I settled down, she told him, when one of the legs of the bed broke, throwing me on to the floor. After a moment of anger, for I was not even sleepy enough to dispense with comfort, I suddenly thought to myself: Why should a bed be intact and not be broken? I got back into bed and was soon asleep...
She was not pretty. Sometimes it was as if her spirit were abandoning her only to reveal — Otávio suspected — what could never be discovered, even by some superhuman vigilance. On the face that then emerged, the limited and unfortunate traits had no intrinsic beauty. Nothing remained of her former mystery except the colour of her skin, milky, sombre, elusive. If the moments of abandon prolonged themselves and succeeded each other, then he was amazed at her ugliness, a kind of abasement and brutality, some blind and irrevocable thing that took possession of Joana's body as if it were decomposing. Yes, I know, Joana continued. The distance that separates feelings from words. I've already thought about this. And the most curious thing of all is that the moment I try to speak, not only do I fail to express what I am feeling, but what I am feeling slowly transforms itself into what I am saying. Or at least what makes me act is certainly not what I am feeling but what I am saying.
He had no sooner met her than she told him about the old man, told him about the bitch expecting pups and, suddenly alarmed, he had felt as if he had just made a confession, as if he had revealed to that stranger the story of his entire life. What life? The one that struggled inside him and that was nothing, he repeated to himself, afraid of appearing before his own eyes as being self-important and burdened with responsibilities. — He was nothing, nothing, and was therefore free to do nothing, he repeated to himself, his eyes mentally shut. — As if he had told Joana what he could only perceive in the dark. And most surprising of all: as if she had listened and then laughed, pardoning him — not like God, but like the devil — opening wide gates to allow him to pass.
Especially when he had touched her, he had understood: whatever might follow between them would be irremediable. For when he had embraced her, he had felt her come alive in his arms like running water. And seeing her so alive, he had understood, overwhelmed and secretly pleased, that if she loved him, there was nothing he could do... At that moment when he had finally kissed her, he had felt himself to be suddenly free, pardoned beyond what he knew of himself, pardoned in what lay beneath everything, he was...
From then onwards there was no choice. He had plunged giddily from Lídia to Joana. Knowing this helped him to love her. It was not difficult. On one occasion she had become distracted looking through the window-pane, her lips parted, oblivious of herself. He had called her and the gentle, forlorn manner in which she had turned her head and said: eh?... had made him fall into himself, sinking into a foolish and obscure wave of love. Otávio had then turned his face away, anxious to avoid looking at her.
He could love her, he could accept the new and incomprehensible adventure she was offering him. But he continued holding on to the first impulse which had thrown him against her. It was not as a woman, it was not like this, submissive, that he wanted her... He needed her cold and assured. So that he could say as he used to say when he was a little boy, protected and triumphant: It's not my fault...
They would marry, they would see each other at every moment and he would recognize that she was worse than him. And strong, in order to teach him not to be afraid. Not even to be afraid of loving... He wanted her not in order to make a life together, but so that she might allow him to live. To rise above himself, above his past, above the petty villainies which he had committed with cowardice and to which he was still attached in a cowardly way. Otávio thought that on Joana's
She was not pretty. Sometimes it was as if her spirit were abandoning her only to reveal — Otávio suspected — what could never be discovered, even by some superhuman vigilance. On the face that then emerged, the limited and unfortunate traits had no intrinsic beauty. Nothing remained of her former mystery except the colour of her skin, milky, sombre, elusive. If the moments of abandon prolonged themselves and succeeded each other, then he was amazed at her ugliness, a kind of abasement and brutality, some blind and irrevocable thing that took possession of Joana's body as if it were decomposing. Yes, I know, Joana continued. The distance that separates feelings from words. I've already thought about this. And the most curious thing of all is that the moment I try to speak, not only do I fail to express what I am feeling, but what I am feeling slowly transforms itself into what I am saying. Or at least what makes me act is certainly not what I am feeling but what I am saying.
He had no sooner met her than she told him about the old man, told him about the bitch expecting pups and, suddenly alarmed, he had felt as if he had just made a confession, as if he had revealed to that stranger the story of his entire life. What life? The one that struggled inside him and that was nothing, he repeated to himself, afraid of appearing before his own eyes as being self-important and burdened with responsibilities. — He was nothing, nothing, and was therefore free to do nothing, he repeated to himself, his eyes mentally shut. — As if he had told Joana what he could only perceive in the dark. And most surprising of all: as if she had listened and then laughed, pardoning him — not like God, but like the devil — opening wide gates to allow him to pass.
Especially when he had touched her, he had understood: whatever might follow between them would be irremediable. For when he had embraced her, he had felt her come alive in his arms like running water. And seeing her so alive, he had understood, overwhelmed and secretly pleased, that if she loved him, there was nothing he could do... At that moment when he had finally kissed her, he had felt himself to be suddenly free, pardoned beyond what he knew of himself, pardoned in what lay beneath everything, he was...
From then onwards there was no choice. He had plunged giddily from Lídia to Joana. Knowing this helped him to love her. It was not difficult. On one occasion she had become distracted looking through the window-pane, her lips parted, oblivious of herself. He had called her and the gentle, forlorn manner in which she had turned her head and said: eh?... had made him fall into himself, sinking into a foolish and obscure wave of love. Otávio had then turned his face away, anxious to avoid looking at her.
He could love her, he could accept the new and incomprehensible adventure she was offering him. But he continued holding on to the first impulse which had thrown him against her. It was not as a woman, it was not like this, submissive, that he wanted her... He needed her cold and assured. So that he could say as he used to say when he was a little boy, protected and triumphant: It's not my fault...
They would marry, they would see each other at every moment and he would recognize that she was worse than him. And strong, in order to teach him not to be afraid. Not even to be afraid of loving... He wanted her not in order to make a life together, but so that she might allow him to live. To rise above himself, above his past, above the petty villainies which he had committed with cowardice and to which he was still attached in a cowardly way. Otávio thought that on Joana's
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