social habits of those who live in the south, in which the pulse of passion throbs through everything in the form of lyric poetry and every emotion is spoken in magic spells.
25.
Then I met José, who pressed his lips hardest of all against mine. And it is about the memory of this alien young man that my dreams have most often played since my feelings for him first awakened. And yet I sent José away with death in his heart.
Why did I start loving José, by all means? I have often thought about this, but it is one of the mysteries of love that anyone should love one person more than another. Because one man is in fact never more remarkable than a thousand others. Or does a woman perhaps love this one particular man because there is no way that she can ever love all the others? José certainly wasnât any more handsome or charming than the others.
Maybe I loved him, like the woman in Lâinvitation au voyage, because he was even more alien than the others, born in South America? Or did I love him because he had a broader and more pliant baritone than the others? His voice was like velvet, deep and warm, and I drowned my senses in it when he sang. Or perhaps because the fire in his flint black eyes burned even more passionately than the fire in the eyes of others? Or because he was eight years younger than I was, and seemed as if he was created to dance on embers? José, José, your name reminds me of the name of Jesus in an Irish saintâs life that I read in my childhood!
His speciousness gave him an air of fairy-tale elfishness, something distant and dangerous, which made him exotic even among his countrymen, a foreigner when he spoke his own language. Andhe had a kind of wondrous way of speaking English without understanding it. Nothing was more delightful than to hear him speak so fluently a language that he couldnât make heads or tails of.
Joséâs character was from the other side of the Earth, where the sun rises in the evening and sets in the morning. Sometimes I could see him with strange mountains in the background, sometimes alone on a never-ending prairie. Thus burn the coals in the eyes of those who are raised in a land where a veiled power dwells in the mountains and bloodthirsty beasts roam the jungles. The dreaminess and depression that sometimes made his face and bearing so gloomy, like fog over the land, are seen only in a man who has looked out over endless prairie in his youth and never beheld its limit. José was neither more handsome nor more gallant than a thousand other men, but he was the man about whom I had dreamt throughout my youth, created for this alone: to love a woman who trembles before the charming power of her own dreams. And yet I sent José away with death in his heart.
I had lived unforgettable days with José, evenings drunk with happiness. We danced in tea salons in the afternoons, visited the most jocund cabarets in the evenings. We drank wine; we drove up into the mountains. For a long time not a single thing happened between us, because José was a noble-minded man and respected my marriage. But the walls crumbled one by one, until finally our lips met over wine in a drawn-out kiss.
GrÃmúlfur was far away. He was in the south, and several days passed. José came with his car in the morning, and we drove to a small village several kilometers away. This was on a mild Spanishwinter day. We ate breakfast at a café out in the countryside; we laughed like children in love and reclined over wine that glowed in the sun. José sat by my side. The smoke from his cigarette took on marvelous shapes in the rays of the sun. We sat close to each other; I felt his arm around me and leaned up against him, and we watched the sunbeams play in the wine and the cigarette smoke in the sunbeams. Finally my name was whispered in my ear:
âJófÃ!â was whispered, and his breath played over my cheeks, filled my senses, fragrant with
25.
Then I met José, who pressed his lips hardest of all against mine. And it is about the memory of this alien young man that my dreams have most often played since my feelings for him first awakened. And yet I sent José away with death in his heart.
Why did I start loving José, by all means? I have often thought about this, but it is one of the mysteries of love that anyone should love one person more than another. Because one man is in fact never more remarkable than a thousand others. Or does a woman perhaps love this one particular man because there is no way that she can ever love all the others? José certainly wasnât any more handsome or charming than the others.
Maybe I loved him, like the woman in Lâinvitation au voyage, because he was even more alien than the others, born in South America? Or did I love him because he had a broader and more pliant baritone than the others? His voice was like velvet, deep and warm, and I drowned my senses in it when he sang. Or perhaps because the fire in his flint black eyes burned even more passionately than the fire in the eyes of others? Or because he was eight years younger than I was, and seemed as if he was created to dance on embers? José, José, your name reminds me of the name of Jesus in an Irish saintâs life that I read in my childhood!
His speciousness gave him an air of fairy-tale elfishness, something distant and dangerous, which made him exotic even among his countrymen, a foreigner when he spoke his own language. Andhe had a kind of wondrous way of speaking English without understanding it. Nothing was more delightful than to hear him speak so fluently a language that he couldnât make heads or tails of.
Joséâs character was from the other side of the Earth, where the sun rises in the evening and sets in the morning. Sometimes I could see him with strange mountains in the background, sometimes alone on a never-ending prairie. Thus burn the coals in the eyes of those who are raised in a land where a veiled power dwells in the mountains and bloodthirsty beasts roam the jungles. The dreaminess and depression that sometimes made his face and bearing so gloomy, like fog over the land, are seen only in a man who has looked out over endless prairie in his youth and never beheld its limit. José was neither more handsome nor more gallant than a thousand other men, but he was the man about whom I had dreamt throughout my youth, created for this alone: to love a woman who trembles before the charming power of her own dreams. And yet I sent José away with death in his heart.
I had lived unforgettable days with José, evenings drunk with happiness. We danced in tea salons in the afternoons, visited the most jocund cabarets in the evenings. We drank wine; we drove up into the mountains. For a long time not a single thing happened between us, because José was a noble-minded man and respected my marriage. But the walls crumbled one by one, until finally our lips met over wine in a drawn-out kiss.
GrÃmúlfur was far away. He was in the south, and several days passed. José came with his car in the morning, and we drove to a small village several kilometers away. This was on a mild Spanishwinter day. We ate breakfast at a café out in the countryside; we laughed like children in love and reclined over wine that glowed in the sun. José sat by my side. The smoke from his cigarette took on marvelous shapes in the rays of the sun. We sat close to each other; I felt his arm around me and leaned up against him, and we watched the sunbeams play in the wine and the cigarette smoke in the sunbeams. Finally my name was whispered in my ear:
âJófÃ!â was whispered, and his breath played over my cheeks, filled my senses, fragrant with
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