Skylight (16 page)

Given the nature of the job he did, Caetano Cunha led a rather bat-like existence. He worked while others slept, and while he rested, with windows and eyes closed, those others went about their business in the daylight. This fact gave him the measure of his own importance, for he firmly believed that he was better than most people and for various reasons, not the least of which was that nocturnal life of his, spent hunched over a Linotype machine while the city slept.

It was still dark when he left work, and the sight of the deserted streets, damp and shining from the dank river air, made him happy. Rather than going straight home, he would wander those silent streets haunted by the dark shapes of women. However tired he was, he would stop and talk to them. If he fancied something more, he would go a little further than mere talk, but even if he didn't, talking to them was enough.

Caetano liked women, all women. He could be aroused by the merest twitch of a skirt. He felt an irresistible attraction for women of easy virtue. Vice, dissolution, love for sale, all fascinated him. He knew most of the city's brothels, knew the price list by heart, could tell you off the top of his head (or so he boasted to himself) the names of a good few dozen women he had slept with.

Only one woman despised him: his own wife. As far as he was concerned, Justina was a totally asexual creature, with no needs and no desires. If he happened to touch her while they were in bed together, he would recoil in disgust, repelled by her hard, thin body, her dry, almost parchment-like skin. “She's not a woman, she's a bag of bones,” he would think.

Justina saw the disgust in his eyes and said nothing. The flame of desire had long since burned out in her. She reciprocated her husband's contempt with her own still more boundless contempt. She knew he was unfaithful to her and frankly didn't care, but what she would not tolerate was having him boast about his conquests at home. Not because she was jealous, but because, aware of how far she had fallen in marrying a man like him, she preferred not to descend to his level. And when Caetano, carried away by his naturally loud, irascible temperament, abused her verbally or compared her with other women, she could silence him with just a few words. To someone of Caetano's Don Juanesque character, those words constituted a humiliation, a reminder of a failure that still burned in his flesh and in his mind. Whenever he heard them, he was tempted to attack his wife physically, but at such moments, Justina's eyes blazed with a fierce fire, her mouth curled into a sneer, and he shrank back.

That's why, when they were together, silence was the rule and words the exception. That's why only icy sentiments and indifference filled the vacuum of the hours they spent together. The mustiness that permeated the apartment, its whole subterranean atmosphere, was redolent of an abandoned tomb.

Tuesday was Caetano's day off. This meant he didn't need to arrive home until late morning; he would sleep until the afternoon and only then have lunch. Maybe it was that late lunch, or possibly the prospect of spending the night in bed beside his wife, but Tuesdays were the days when Caetano's ill humor was most likely to surface, however hard he tried to suppress it. On those days, Justina's reserve became still more marked and seemed to double in thickness. Accustomed to the insuperable distance between them, Caetano could never understand why it should become even greater. In revenge, he would exaggerate the crudeness of his words and gestures, the brusqueness of his movements. What particularly annoyed him was the fact that his wife always chose Tuesday as the day on which to air their dead daughter's clothes and carefully polish the glass on her eternally smiling photo. He felt this ceremony was intended as a criticism of him, and though he was sure that, in this respect at least, he did not deserve any criticism, he nevertheless found that weekly parading of memories deeply troubling.

Tuesdays were unhappy days in the Caetano Cunha household, nervous, edgy days when Justina, if pried out of her usual state of abstraction, would turn violent and aggressive. Days when Caetano was afraid to open his mouth because every word seemed charged with electricity. Days on which some evil little devil seemed to take pleasure in making the atmosphere in their apartment unbreathable.

The clouds that had covered the sky the previous night had cleared away. The sun poured in through the glass canopy over the enclosed balcony at the back, its iron struts casting a shadow on the floor like prison bars. Caetano had just had his lunch. He looked at the clock and saw that it was nearly four. He lumbered to his feet. He was in the habit of sleeping without his pajama bottoms on. His large abdomen strained at the buttons of his loose pajama jacket, giving him a striking resemblance to one of those plump, doll-like figures created by Rafael Bordalo. While his swollen belly might be laughable, his flushed, scowling face could not have been more unpleasant. Oblivious to both these things, he left the bedroom, walked through the kitchen, without saying a word to his wife, and went into the bathroom. He opened the window and looked up at the sky. The intense light made him blink like an owl. He gazed indifferently out at the neighboring back yards, at three cats playing on one of the roofs, and didn't even notice the pure, supple flight of a passing swallow.

Then his eyes fixed on a point much closer to home. In the neighboring window, that of Lídia's bathroom, he could see the sleeve of a pink dressing gown moving about. Now and then, the sleeve fell back to reveal a bare forearm. Leaning on the windowsill, with the lower part of his body hidden, Caetano could not take his eyes off her window. He could see very little, but what he saw was still enough to excite him. He leaned farther out and met the ironic gaze of his wife, watching him from the balcony. His face hardened. Then suddenly she was there before him, handing him a coffeepot.

“Here's your hot water.”

He didn't thank her, he merely closed the bathroom door again. While he was shaving, he kept peering across at Lídia's window. The sleeve had disappeared. In its place, Caetano found his wife's eyes staring at him. He knew that the best way to avoid the imminent storm was to stop looking, which would be easy enough given that Lídia was no longer there. However, temptation won out over prudence. At one point, exasperated by his wife's spying, he opened the door and said:

“Haven't you got anything better to do?”

They never addressed each other by their first names. She looked at him without answering and, still without answering, turned her back on him. Caetano slammed the door and did not look out of the window again. When he emerged, washed and shaved, he noticed that his wife had taken from a suitcase that she kept in the kitchen the diminutive items of clothing that had once belonged to Matilde. Were it not for the adoring look she bestowed on the clothes, Caetano might have passed by without a word, but yet again, he felt she was criticizing him.

“When are you going to stop spying on me?”

Justina took her time before replying. She seemed to be returning very slowly from somewhere far away, from a distant land with only one inhabitant.

“I was admiring your persistence,” she said coldly.

“What do you mean ‘persistence'?” he asked, taking a step forward.

He looked utterly ridiculous in his underpants, his legs bare. Justina eyed him sarcastically. She knew that she was ugly and unattractive, but seeing her husband like that, she felt like laughing in his face:

“Do you really want me to tell you?”

“Yes.”

From that moment on, Caetano was lost. Before he said that word, there had still been time to avoid receiving the inevitable slap in the face, but he had said yes and was already regretting it. Too late.

“You still haven't lost hope, then? You still think she'll fall into your arms one day, do you? Aren't you embarrassed by what happened?”

Caetano's chin was trembling with rage. Saliva appeared at the corners of his thick lips.

“Do you want her lover to come and rip you to shreds again for overstepping the mark?”

And in a tone of ironic concern, as if she were giving him a piece of advice, she said:

“Have a little self-respect. She's far too classy a piece for you to lay hands on. Make do with the other women, the ones whose photos you carry around in your wallet. I can't say I care for your taste. I suppose when they have their mug shots taken they give you a copy, is that right? You're a sort of branch office of the police, aren't you?”

Caetano turned deathly pale. His wife had never gone so far before. He clenched his fists and took a step toward her:

“One day I'll break every bone in your body! One day I'll beat you to a pulp, do you hear? Just don't push me!”

“You wouldn't dare.”

“You . . .” and a particularly filthy word emerged from his lips.

Justina said only:

“You're not insulting me but yourself, because that's how you see all women.”

Caetano's heavy body swayed stiffly like that of a robot. Fury and impotent rage sent words up into his mouth, but there they stumbled and died. He raised his clenched fist as if to bring it down on his wife's head. She didn't flinch. His fist, defeated, slowly descended. Justina's eyes resembled two burning coals. A humiliated Caetano vanished from the room, slamming the door.

The cat, who had been observing his owners with glaucous eyes, slipped away along the dark corridor and lay down on the doormat, silent and indifferent.

Isaura, unable to sleep, had been tossing and turning in bed for two hours now. The whole building was quiet. Occasionally, from outside in the street, she heard the footsteps of some night owl returning home late. The pale, distant light of the stars came in through the window. In the darkness of the bedroom she could just make out the still-darker shapes of the furniture. The wardrobe mirror vaguely reflected the light from the window. Every quarter of an hour, as inflexible as time itself, the clock in the downstairs apartment reminded her of her insomniac state. Everything was silent and asleep, except for Isaura. She did all she could to get to sleep. She counted to a thousand, then counted again, she relaxed her muscles one by one, she closed her eyes, tried to forget about her insomnia and slip past it into sleep. In vain. Every single one of her nerves was awake. Despite the effort required to make her brain concentrate on the need to sleep, her thoughts were leading her along vertiginous paths into deep valleys from which arose the dim murmur of voices calling to her. She was hovering high up on the powerful back of a bird with wide wings, which, after soaring above the clouds, where it was hard to catch her breath, fell like a stone into the misty valleys in which she could make out white figures so pale they appeared to be naked or covered only by transparent veils. She was tormented by an objectless desire, by a desire for desire and by an equal fear of it too.

At her side, her sister was sleeping peacefully. Isaura found her quiet breathing and her stillness exasperating. She twice got up and went over to the window. Random words, half-finished sentences, vague gestures were going round and round in her head. It was like a scratched record that repeats over and over the same lovely musical phrase, which becomes odious with endless repetition. Ten times, a hundred times, the notes recur and mesh and meld until all that remains is a single, obsessive sound, terrible and implacable. You feel that just one minute of that obsession will bring madness in its wake, but the minute passes and madness does not come. Instead you grow still more lucid. Your spirit embraces far horizons, travels here, there, everywhere, with no frontiers to contain it, and with each step you take you become more and more painfully lucid. To forget about it, to stop the sound, to crush it with silence would mean peace and sleep, but the words, the phrases, the gestures rise up from beneath the silence in a dumb, endless spiral.

Isaura told herself that she was mad. Her head was burning, her forehead too, and her brain seemed to have grown so large it was about to burst out of her skull. It was her insomnia that was to blame, and it would not leave her until those thoughts left her as well. And what thoughts, Isaura! What monstrous thoughts! What repellent aberrations! What subterranean furies were pushing at the trapdoors of her will!

What diabolical, malicious hand had guided her toward that book? And it was supposed to serve a moral purpose too! Of course, said cold reason, almost lost in the whirlwind of sensations. Why, then, this turmoil of unchained instincts erupting in her flesh? Why had she not read it coolly, dispassionately? Weakness, said reason. Desire, screamed her long-buried instincts, for years shunned and ignored as being shameful in the extreme. And now those instincts had risen to the surface, and her will was drowning in a pool darker than night and deeper than death.

Isaura gnawed at her wrists. Her face was drenched in sweat, her hair clung to her scalp, her mouth was twisted into a violent grimace. Close to madness, she sat on the edge of the bed, ran her hands through her hair and looked around her. Night and silence. The sound from that scratched record was rising from the abyss of silence. Exhausted, she fell back on the bed. Adriana shifted slightly, but continued to sleep. Her indifference felt like a recrimination. Despite the suffocating heat, Isaura pulled the sheet up over her head. She covered her eyes with her hands, as if the night were not dark enough to hide her shame, but the darkness behind her eyelids filled up with red and yellow lights, like the sparks from a bonfire. (If only dawn would break, if only the sun would miraculously leave the other side of the world and burst into the room!)

Slowly, Isaura's hands moved toward her sister. Her fingertips could feel the heat of Adriana's body from a centimeter away. They stayed there for several long minutes, neither advancing nor retreating. The sweat had dried on Isaura's forehead, but her face was scalding hot as if a fire were burning inside her. Her fingers advanced until they touched Adriana's bare arm, then withdrew as if they had received an electric shock. Isaura's heart was beating dully. Her wide, dilated eyes could see nothing but blackness. Again her hands advanced. Again they stopped. Again they moved forward. Now they were resting on Adriana's arm. With a slithering, sinuous movement, Isaura moved closer to her sister. She could feel the heat emanating from her body. Slowly, one of her hands ran along Adriana's arm from wrist to shoulder, where it slipped in beneath her hot, damp armpit and insinuated itself beneath one breast. Isaura's breathing became rapid and irregular. The hand slid beneath the light fabric of Adriana's nightdress as far as her stomach. Adriana turned abruptly onto her back. Her bare shoulder was on the same level as Isaura's mouth, which sensed the proximity of flesh. Like iron filings drawn to a magnet, Isaura's mouth fixed itself on Adriana's shoulder. It was a long, fierce, hungry kiss. At the same time, her hand grabbed Adriana's waist and drew her closer. Adriana woke with a start. Isaura did not release her grip. Her mouth was still planted on her shoulder like a sucker and her fingers fastened on her thigh like claws. With a cry of terror, Adriana pulled away and leapt out of bed. She ran to the bedroom door, then, remembering that her mother and aunt were sleeping on the other side, turned back, taking refuge by the window.