Skylight (25 page)

“Are you feeling trapped?” asked Silvestre.

“Trapped?”

“Yes, you know, the tentacle . . .”

“Ah.”

This exclamation was spoken in an indefinable, almost absent tone. Abel sat up, looked hard at Silvestre and added slowly:

“No, perhaps I'm feeling the lack of a tentacle. The conversations we've had have made me think about things I thought had long since been safely filed away.”

“I don't think they could have been filed away, or only very haphazardly. If you really were the kind of person you try so hard to appear to be, I would never have told you about my life.”

“You should be pleased, then.”

“Pleased? On the contrary. I think you're in the grip of tedium. You're tired of life, you think you've learned all there is to learn, and everything you see around you only increases your sense of tedium. Why, then, should I feel pleased? It isn't always easy to cut off a tentacle. You can always leave a boring job and, even more easily, a boring woman, but tedium, how do you cut yourself off from that?”

“You've said all this before, you're surely not going to repeat—”

“I'm obviously annoying you.”

“No, not at all!”

Abel leapt to his feet and reached out one arm to Silvestre, who, having made as if to leave the room, now remained where he was. Abel sat down on the edge of the bed, half turned toward Silvestre. They were looking at each other, unsmiling, as if waiting for something important to happen. Then Abel said:

“You do know, don't you, that I'm your friend?”

“I do,” answered Silvestre. “And I'm your friend too, but we seem to have had a falling-out.”

“That's my fault.”

“Perhaps it's mine. You need someone who can help you, and I don't seem to be that person.”

Abel got up, put on his shoes and went over to a trunk in one corner of the room. He opened it and, pointing to the books almost filling it, said:

“Even in my worst moments it never once occurred to me to sell them. These are all the books I brought from home, plus others I've bought over the past twelve years. I've read and reread them all. I've learned a lot from them. Half of what I learned I've forgotten, and the other half might be quite wrong, but right or wrong, the truth is that they have only contributed to making my own uselessness more obvious.”

“But you were quite right to read them. Think of all the people who live their entire lives without ever realizing how useless they are. In order for someone to be truly useful, he must, at some point, feel his own uselessness. At least then he's less likely to go back to being useless . . .”

“Be useful, that's all you ever say to me. But how can I be useful?”

“That's something you have to discover for yourself, like everything else in life. No one can give you advice about that. I'd really like to—if I thought it would do any good.”

“And I'd like to know what you really mean.”

Silvestre smiled:

“Don't worry. All I mean is that we won't become what we are meant to be in life by listening to other people's words or advice. We have to feel in our own flesh the wound that will make us into proper men. Then it's up to us to act . . .”

Abel closed the trunk. He turned to Silvestre and said in a dreamy tone:

“To act . . . If everyone acted as we have done, there would be no proper men . . .”

“My time is past,” said Silvestre.

“That's why it's so easy for you to criticize me. Listen, how about a game of checkers?”

That night, Paulino had arrived late, at around eleven o'clock. He gave Lídia a peck on the cheek, then went over to his favorite sofa, where he sat smoking his usual cigarillo.

As it happened, Lídia was not wearing the obligatory negligee, which may have contributed to Paulino's unspoken irritation. Even the way he gripped his cigarillo between his teeth and drummed his fingers on the arm of the sofa were signs of his displeasure. Sitting at his feet on a low stool, Lídia was doing her best to amuse him by recounting the minutiae of her day. She had begun to notice a change in her lover some nights before. He no longer “devoured” her with his eyes, and while this could be attributed to long familiarity, it could also mean that he was losing interest in her for some other reason. Lídia's permanent feeling of insecurity meant that she always feared the worst. Apparently insignificant details, a certain degree of inattentiveness and brusqueness on his part, a slightly abstracted air, only added to her anxiety.

Paulino was doing nothing to keep the conversation going. There were long pauses during which neither of them knew what to say, or, rather, during which Lídia didn't know what to say, for it seemed Paulino preferred to remain silent. She racked her brain for ways to keep the conversation alive, but he responded only distractedly. And the conversation, for lack of substance, was burning out like a lamp with no oil in it. That evening, Lídia's clothes seemed a further motive for his distant behavior. Paulino kept blowing out great clouds of smoke with a long, impatient sigh. Abandoning her attempt to find a subject that might interest him, Lídia said, almost casually:

“You seem a bit preoccupied.”

“Hm.”

Such a vague response could mean anything. He appeared to be waiting for Lídia to decide what he meant. Gripped by the vague fear of the unknown that lurks both in dark houses and in imprudent words whose consequences one can never predict, Lídia added:

“You've been behaving differently for a few days now. You always used to tell me your problems. I don't wish to be indiscreet, of course, but it might help you to talk about them.”

Paulino stared at her in amusement. He even smiled. Lídia found both look and smile terrifying. She regretted having spoken. Seeing her shrink back, and not wishing to miss the opportunity she was offering him, Paulino said only:

“Problems at work . . .”

“You always used to say that when you were with me, you forgot all about work.”

“I know, but it's different now.”

His smile was full of malice. His eyes had the implacable concentration of someone carefully noting imperfections and blemishes. Lídia felt herself blush. She had a feeling something bad was about to happen. When she still said nothing, Paulino added:

“No, now I can't forget about work. Not that I no longer feel at ease with you, not at all, but some problems are so complicated we can't help but think about them all the time regardless of the company we're in.”

Lídia had not the slightest desire to know what those problems were. She sensed that it would only hurt her to hear about them, and at that precise moment she longed for the phone to ring, for example, or for some other interruption that would bring the conversation to a close. The phone, however, did not ring, and Paulino was clearly in no mood now to be silenced.

“You women don't understand men. Just because we really like a woman doesn't mean we never think of anyone else.”

“Of course. It's the same with us women.”

Some mischievous demon had prompted Lídia to say these words. The same demon was whispering still more daring things to her, and she had to bite her tongue so as not to say them out loud. Her sharp eyes were now trained on Paulino's ugly features. And he, slightly piqued by what she had said, answered:

“Naturally. It wouldn't do to be thinking about the same person all the time.”

There was a hint of spite in his voice. They eyed each other mistrustfully, almost like enemies. Paulino was trying to find out just how much Lídia knew. She, for her part, was turning his words this way and that in her effort to discover what lay behind them. Suddenly an intuitive flash lit up her brain:

“Changing the subject entirely, I forgot to mention that my upstairs neighbor, the young girl's mother, asked me to thank you for your interest . . .”

The change that came over Paulino's face proved to her that she had been right. She knew now whom she was up against. At the same time, she felt a shiver of fear run through her. The little demon had hidden himself away somewhere, and she was alone and helpless.

Paulino knocked the ash off the end of his cigarillo and shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He looked like a boy who has been caught eating jam while his mother wasn't looking.

“Yes, she's a bright young thing.”

“Are you thinking of increasing her wages?”

“Yes, possibly. I said I'd do so after three months, but her family's pretty badly off, or so you told me. And Claudinha gets on really well with the other staff . . .”

“So it's Claudinha, is it?”

“Yes, Maria Cláudia.”

Paulino was absorbed in watching the ash dulling the glow of his cigarillo. With an ironic smile, Lídia asked:

“And how's her shorthand coming along?”

“Oh, really well. She's a quick learner.”

“I'm sure she is.”

The demon had returned. Lídia was now confident that as long as she kept her cool, she would win in the end. She must, above all, avoid offending Paulino, but without revealing to him her own secret fears. She would be lost if he so much as suspected how insecure she was feeling.

“Her mother talks to me a lot, you know, and from what she's told me, it seems that Claudinha has been a naughty girl recently.”

“A naughty girl?”

Paulino's evident curiosity would have been enough to convince Lídia, if she hadn't been convinced already.

“I don't know
what
you're thinking,” she said insinuatingly. Then, as if the idea had only just occurred to her, she exclaimed: “Oh, good heavens, it's nothing like that. If it were, do you think her mother would have told me? Don't be so silly, sweetheart!”

Perhaps Paulino was being silly, but the fact is he seemed disappointed. He managed to splutter out:

“I wasn't thinking anything . . .”

“It's quite simple, really. Her father was getting concerned because she started arriving home late each evening. Her excuse was that you had kept her at the office, finishing some urgent work . . .”

Paulino realized that he should fill in the pause:

“Well, it wasn't quite like that. It happened a few times, but—”

“Oh, no, that's all perfectly understandable, no, that wasn't the problem. Her father followed her one evening and caught her with her boyfriend!”

The little demon was so overjoyed now that he was performing somersaults and rolling around laughing. Paulino had grown somber. He gritted his teeth and muttered:

“You can't trust these modern girls . . .”

“Now you're being unfair, sweetheart. What's she supposed to do? You're forgetting that she's only nineteen, and what's a girl of nineteen supposed to do? Her Prince Charming is bound to be some handsome, elegant boy her own age who tells her the sweetest things. Don't forget, you were nineteen once.”

“When I was nineteen . . .”

But he said no more and sat there chewing on his cigarillo, muttering incomprehensibly. He was greatly put out, not to say furious. He had spent valuable time courting the young typist only to learn that she had been stringing him along all the while. He had never gone beyond smiling and being attentive and talking to her—when they were alone in his office, of course, after six o'clock—but nothing more than that. She was very young and there were her parents to consider . . . In time, perhaps . . . but his intentions were, of course, entirely honorable. He simply wanted to help the young woman and her struggling family . . . Then he said:

“And do you think it's true?”

“You see how silly and naive you are? People don't invent things like that. When they happen, one's first instinct is usually to cover them up. And the fact that I know about it means that Claudinha's mother trusts me—” She broke off and added anxiously: “I hope you're not too upset. It would be a shame if you were to turn against the girl. I know how scrupulous you are about such matters, but please don't take it out on her!”

“I won't, don't worry.”

Lídia got up. It was best to drop the subject now. She had sown the seed of doubt in Paulino's pleasant little flirtation, and this, she believed, would be quite enough to put a stop to his fantasy. She prepared his coffee, taking care to make her every gesture elegant. She then served Paulino herself. She sat on his lap, put her arm about him and gave him the coffee to sip as if he were a baby. The subject of Maria Cláudia had been safely dealt with. Paulino drank his coffee, smiling at the way Lídia was stroking the back of his neck. Suddenly Lídia expressed unusual interest in his hair:

“What are you using on your hair these days?”

“It's a new lotion I bought.”

“Yes, it smells different. Hang on, though . . .”

She looked hard at his bald pate and said, beaming:

“Sweetie, you've got more hair!”

“Really?”

“Yes, I mean it.”

“Let me look in the mirror.”

Lídia slid off his lap and ran to the dressing table to get the mirror.

“Here you are!”

Squinting around in order to see his own image, Paulino said softly:

“Yes, you're right . . .”

“Look, here and here! See those little hairs. That's new hair growing!”

Paulino handed the mirror back to her, smiling:

“It's good stuff. I was told it was. It contains vitamins, you know.”

“Oh, I see.”

Paulino then went into elaborate detail as to the precise composition of the lotion he was using and the mode of application. In this way, the evening, having begun badly, ended very well. It did not go on for as long as usual. It was Lídia's “time of the month,” and so Paulino left before midnight. Although not in so many words, they both expressed their regret at this imposed abstinence, but made up for it with kisses and tender words.