Skylight (17 page)

Isaura had not moved. She tried to pretend she was asleep, but Adriana still did not come back to bed. She could hear her sibilant breathing. Through half-closed lids, she could see her sister's body silhouetted against the opalescent backdrop of the window. Then, abandoning all pretense at sleep, she said softly:

“Adriana.”

Her sister's tremulous voice answered:

“What do you want?”

“Come here.”

Adriana did not move.

“You'll get cold,” insisted Isaura.

“It doesn't matter.”

“You can't stay there. If you don't come over here, I'll come to you.”

Adriana approached, sat down on the edge of the bed and reached out to turn on the light.

“Don't,” said Isaura.

“Why not?”

“I don't want you to see me.”

“Why ever not?”

“I'm ashamed . . .”

These words were spoken in a murmur. Adriana's voice was becoming firmer, but Isaura's trembled as if she were about to break into sobs:

“Please, I beg you, lie down . . .”

“No, I won't.”

“Why? Are you afraid of me?”

Adriana took a while to answer:

“Yes, I am . . .”

“I won't do anything, I promise. I don't know what came over me. I swear . . .”

Isaura began to cry softly. Adriana opened the wardrobe door and, by touch alone, found a woolen jacket. She put it on and sat down again at the foot of the bed.

“Are you going to stay there?” asked her sister.

“Yes.”

“All night?”

“Yes.”

Isaura let out a louder sob. Almost immediately, the light in the room next door came on and they heard Amélia say:

“Is something wrong?”

Adriana quickly stuffed her jacket behind the bed and slipped beneath the sheets. Amélia appeared in the doorway, a shawl wrapped about her shoulders.

“What is it?”

“Isaura had a bad dream,” said Adriana, sitting up in order to hide her sister.

Amélia came closer:

“Are you ill?”

“It's nothing, Aunt. It was just a nightmare. Go back to bed,” said Adriana, pushing her away.

“All right, but if you need anything, just call.”

The bedroom door closed again, the light went out, and silence gradually returned, broken only by a few muffled sobs. Then the sobs became fewer and farther between, and only the shaking of Isaura's shoulders betrayed her agitation. Adriana kept her distance, waiting. Slowly the sheets grew warm again. The warmth from their two bodies mingled. Isaura said:

“Do you forgive me?”

Adriana did not respond at once. She knew that she should say yes, in order to reassure Isaura, but the word she wanted to say was an abrupt no.

“Do you forgive me?” Isaura asked again.

“Yes, I forgive you.”

Isaura felt an impulse to embrace her sister and weep, but she controlled herself, fearing that Adriana might misinterpret the gesture. She felt that, from then on, everything she did or said would be poisoned by the memory of those few minutes, that her love for her sister had been distorted and soiled by that terrible bout of insomnia and by what had followed. Breathlessly, she murmured:

“Thank you.”

The minutes and hours passed very slowly. The clock downstairs chimed at regular intervals, measuring out the time as if it were an endless skein of wool. Isaura finally fell asleep, exhausted. Adriana did not. She remained awake until the bluish light of night filling the window had become the gray light of dawn, which, in slow gradations, was replaced by the white light of morning. Motionless, staring up at the ceiling, her head pounding, she was obstinately struggling with the awakening of her own hunger for love, which was equally repressed, hidden and frustrated.

That evening, in Anselmo's apartment, they dined earlier than usual. Maria Cláudia had to get dressed up in order to be introduced to Paulino Morais, and it was best not to keep a person waiting when you were planning to ask him a favor. Mother and daughter had eaten quickly, then disappeared into the latter's bedroom. There were various problems to resolve as how best to present Claudinha, and the most difficult of all was what to wear. None of her dresses set off her beauty and her youth better than a yellow sleeveless number in a light, airy fabric. When she turned, its full, gathered skirt resembled an inverted flowerhead and fell languidly from her waist like a lazy wave. This won Rosália's vote; however, Claudinha, with her natural good sense and good taste, realized that while the dress would be ideal for the summer months, it looked out of place in a still-rainy spring. Besides, Senhor Morais might disapprove of its not having sleeves. Rosália agreed, but made no further suggestions. She had chosen that dress and that alone, and had no other preferences.

The choice was not easy, but in the end Claudinha plumped for a gray-green dress, which was discreet and appropriate for the season. It was a woolen dress, with long sleeves that fastened at the cuffs with buttons of the same gray-green color. It had a modest neckline that barely revealed her throat. For a future employee it was perfect. Rosália disagreed, but as soon as her daughter put the dress on, she saw that she was right.

Maria Cláudia was always right. She studied herself in the wardrobe mirror and liked what she saw. The yellow dress made her look younger, but what she wanted now was to look older. No frills, no bare arms. The dress she had chosen fitted her like a glove, seemed to cling to her body and respond to her slightest movement. It had no belt, but the cut of the dress gave it a natural waist, and Maria Cláudia's waist was so slender anyway that a belt would spoil the effect. Seeing herself in the mirror, Claudinha realized which direction she should take in future as regards what she wore. No frills and fripperies to hide her figure. And at that moment, turning this way and that in front of the mirror, it occurred to her that she would look good in a lamé dress, the kind that resembles a second skin, as flexible and supple as her own.

“What do you think, Mama?” she asked.

Rosália was left speechless. She was hovering around her daughter like a dresser preparing the star for her big moment. Maria Cláudia sat down, took lipstick and rouge from her handbag and began to apply her makeup. Her hair could wait; it required only a quick brush. She didn't overdo the makeup, though; it was even more discreet than her dress. She was relying on her understandably nervous state to give her a good color—a little nervousness always suited her. When she had finished, she stood before her mother and said again:

“What do you think?”

“You look lovely, sweetheart.”

Claudinha smiled at her own reflection, gave herself one last probing look and declared that she was ready. Rosália summoned her husband, and Anselmo duly appeared. He had adopted the noble expression of a father about to decide his daughter's future, and he seemed genuinely moved.

“Do you like it, Papa?”

“You look charming, my dear.”

Anselmo had learned that, at key moments such as this, “my dear” was the best form of address to use. It conferred seriousness on the occasion, suggested fatherly affection and pride tinged with respect.

“I'm so nervous,” said Claudinha.

“You must keep calm,” said her father, smoothing his neat mustache with one firm hand. Nothing could trouble the firmness of that hand.

When Claudinha walked past him, Anselmo slightly adjusted the string of pearls she was wearing: the final touch, and made, as was only right, by the firm, loving hand of her father.

“Off you go, my dear,” he said solemnly.

Her heart fluttering inside her like a caged bird, Maria Cláudia went down the stairs to the first floor. She was far more nervous than she seemed. She had been to Lídia's apartment on innumerable occasions, but never when her lover was there. This visit, then, had about it an air of complicity and secrecy, of something forbidden. She was being admitted into the presence of Paulino Morais, into direct knowledge of Lídia's “irregular situation.” This excited and dizzied her.

Lídia opened the door, smiling broadly.

“We were expecting you.”

These words reinforced Maria Cláudia's feeling of intimacy. She entered, trembling all over. Lídia was wearing her taffeta dressing gown and a pair of dance shoes that were attached to her ankles by two silvery straps. They looked more like sandals than shoes, and yet Maria Cláudia would have given anything to own such a pair.

Accustomed as she was to being shown straight into the bedroom, she took a step in that direction. Lídia smiled:

“No, not that way.”

Claudinha blushed scarlet. And so it was, blushing and confused, that she appeared before Paulino Morais, who was waiting for her in the dining room; he was wearing a jacket and smoking his usual cigarillo.

Lídia introduced them. Paulino got up. With the hand holding the cigarillo, he gestured to Maria Cláudia to take a seat, and they all sat down. Paulino was looking fixedly at Claudinha. She averted her gaze and stared down at the geometric figures in the carpet.

“Please, Paulino,” said Lídia, still smiling, “can't you see you're embarrassing Maria Cláudia?”

Paulino started slightly, then he smiled too and said:

“That certainly wasn't my intention.” And turning to Maria Cláudia: “I didn't think you were so . . . so young!”

“I'm nineteen, Senhor Morais,” she said, looking up.

“As you see, she's still a child,” said Lídia.

Claudinha glanced across at her. The look they exchanged was suspicious and suddenly hostile. Maria Cláudia saw in a flash what Lídia was thinking, and what she saw sent a shiver of fear and pleasure through her. She sensed that Lídia was now her enemy, and she understood why. She saw herself and Lídia as if from another person's perspective, from Paulino Morais's perspective, for example, and the comparison clearly favored her.

“I'm not that much of a child, Dona Lídia, although I am, as Senhor Morais said, very young.”

Lídia bit her lip: she could see what Claudinha was hinting at. She immediately regained her composure, however, and laughed:

“Oh, I was just the same when I was your age. It used to drive me mad when anyone called me a child, but of course now I see they were right. So why can't you see that too?”

“Perhaps because I'm not yet as old as Dona Lídia?”

Maria Cláudia was quick on the uptake when it came to these female skirmishes. This was her very first bout and, although she had already scored two hits and was herself as yet untouched, she was a little frightened: she feared she might not have breath enough or the right weapons to survive the rest of the duel. Fortunately for her, Paulino intervened. He took out a gold cigarette case and offered both women a cigarette. Lídia accepted.

“Don't you smoke?” Paulino asked Maria Cláudia.

She blushed. She had smoked on several occasions in secret, but felt she should not accept. It might look bad and, besides, she was sure she would never be able to compete with Lídia when it came to holding the cigarette and raising it to her lips in a sufficiently elegant manner. She said:

“No, I don't, Senhor Morais.”

“Very sensible.” He paused to inhale the smoke from his cigarillo, then went on: “Anyway, I don't think it's very nice of you two to talk about age when I'm old enough to be the father of you both.”

This remark had a soothing effect and established a truce. However, Claudinha immediately took the initiative, and with what Anselmo would have termed a charming smile, she remarked:

“You're making yourself out to be much older than you really are.”

“All right, then, how old do you think I am?”

“About forty-five, perhaps . . .”

“Come now!” Paulino laughed out loud, and when he laughed his belly shook. “A little bit more than that.”

“Fifty?”

“No, fifty-six. So old enough to be your grandfather.”

“Well, you don't look it!”

She said this with real sincerity and spontaneity, as Paulino was quick to notice. Lídia stood up. She went over to her lover and tried to lead the conversation back to the real reason for Maria Cláudia's visit.

“Don't forget that Claudinha is more interested in your decision than in your age. It's getting late, and she probably needs to go to bed. Besides . . .” She paused and looked at Paulino with an expressive smile, then said in a soft voice, heavy with implied meanings: “Besides, I need to talk to you alone.”

Maria Cláudia gave in at this point. She could not do battle on that terrain. She saw that she was an intruder, that they were both—or at least Lídia was—eager to see the back of her. She felt like crying.

“Of course, yes, you're quite right!” Paulino seemed to remember for the first time that he had a position to maintain, his respectability to safeguard, and that the frivolous nature of the conversation could compromise both. “So you want a job, do you?”

“Oh, I have a job already, Senhor Morais, but my parents don't think I earn enough, and Dona Lídia was kind enough to take an interest and . . .”

“What can you do?”

“I can type.”

“Is that all? You don't know shorthand?”

“No, Senhor Morais.”

“In the current climate, knowing how to type really isn't enough. How much do you earn?”

“Five hundred escudos.”

“Hm, so you don't know shorthand?”

“No, sir . . .”

Maria Cláudia's voice tailed off. Lídia was beaming. Paulino looked thoughtful. An awkward silence ensued.

“But I could always learn,” said Claudinha.

“Hm.”

Paulino was drawing on his cigarillo and looking at the girl. Lídia chipped in:

“Listen, darling, I'd really like it if you could find Claudinha a job, but if it's just not possible . . . Claudinha's a bright girl. She'll understand.”