Skylight (8 page)

Lídia's half-closed eyes followed her vague, hesitant thoughts. The thread grew thinner, shadows interposed themselves like clouds, then the thread would reappear with absolute clarity only to become veiled in shadows again and reemerge farther off. It was like a wounded bird dragging itself along, then fluttering into the air, appearing and disappearing, before falling down dead. Unable to keep her thoughts above the dimming clouds, Lídia fell asleep.

She was woken by the loud ringing of the doorbell. Confused, her eyes still heavy with sleep, she sat up on the bed. The bell rang again. Lídia got to her feet, put on her slippers and went out into the corridor. She peered cautiously through the spyhole, scowled, then opened the door:

“Come in, Mother.”

“Hello, Lídia. May I come in?”

“Of course, isn't that what I just said?”

Her mother went in. Lídia led her into the kitchen.

“You look annoyed.”

“Me? The very idea. Sit down.”

Her mother perched on a stool. She was in her sixties, and her graying hair was covered by a black mantilla, as black as the dress she was wearing. She had a flabby, almost unlined face the color of grubby ivory. Beneath her near-lashless lids, her eyes were dull and fixed, and her sparse, thin eyebrows resembled circumflexes and gave her a look of permanent vacuous amazement.

“I wasn't expecting you today,” said Lídia.

“No, it's not my usual day or my usual time,” said her mother. “Are you well?”

“Pretty much. And you?”

“Mustn't grumble. If it wasn't for my rheumatism . . .”

Lídia tried to take an interest in her mother's rheumatism, but, failing utterly in the attempt, changed the subject:

“I was deep asleep when you rang. You woke me up.”

“Hm, you don't look well,” commented her mother.

“Really? It's probably because I've been asleep.”

“Could be. They do say that sleeping too much is bad for you.”

Neither of them was taken in by this exchange of banalities. Lídia knew perfectly well that her mother's visit had nothing to do with whether she was well or not; and for her part, her mother was only holding back before mentioning the real reason for her visit. Then Lídia realized that it was nearly four o'clock and she needed to go out.

“So what brings you here today?”

Her mother began smoothing a crease in her skirt, focusing all her attention on that task as if she had not heard the question. Then, finally, she murmured:

“I need some money.”

Lídia was not surprised. This was what she had been expecting. However, she could not conceal her displeasure:

“Every month you come to me earlier and earlier . . .”

“You know how difficult things are for me . . .”

“I know, but you should try to put some money aside.”

“I do, but it gets spent.”

Her mother spoke in the serene voice of someone confident of getting what she wants. Lídia looked at her. Her mother was still sitting, eyes lowered, staring down at her skirt, watching the movement of her own hand. Lídia left the kitchen. Her mother immediately stopped smoothing her skirt and looked up. There was an expression of contentment on her face, that of someone who has sought and found. Hearing her daughter coming back, she resumed her modest pose.

“Here you are,” said Lídia, holding out two one-hundred- escudo notes. “That's all I can afford right now.”

Her mother took the money and put it in her purse, which she then buried in the depths of her handbag.

“Thank you. Are you going out, then?”

“Yes, I'm going down to the Baixa. I'm sick of being stuck at home. I'll probably have a cup of tea somewhere and do a bit of window-shopping.”

Her mother's small, beady eyes, like those of a stuffed animal, remained fixed on her.

“Far be it from me to say,” she said, “but do you think you should go out and about quite so much?”

“I don't. I just go out when I feel like it.”

“Yes, but Senhor Morais might not like it.”

Lídia's nostrils flared in anger. In a slow, sarcastic voice, she said:

“You seem to care more about what Senhor Morais might think than I do.”

“It's for your own good. Now that you've got a . . . position . . .”

“Thank you for your concern, but I'm old enough not to need your advice. I go out when I want and I do what I want. Whether it's a good thing or a bad thing is my affair.”

“I'm only saying it because I'm your mother and I want what's best for you.”

Lídia gave a short, jeering laugh.

“What's
best
for me? It's only in the last few years that you've shown the slightest concern for my well-being. Before that, you didn't much care.”

“That's not true,” retorted her mother, once more turning her attention to the crease in her skirt. “I've always been concerned about you.”

“Possibly, but you're much more concerned now. Don't worry. I haven't the slightest desire to return to my old life, to the days when you didn't care about me, or if you like, when you cared even less than you do now.”

Her mother stood up. She had gotten what she wanted and the conversation was taking a disagreeable turn: best to leave. Lídia did nothing to stop her. She was furious at the minor exploitation of which she had been the victim, furious at her mother for daring to give her advice. She felt like sitting her down in a corner and keeping her there until she had told her exactly what she thought of her. All those concerns and suspicions, her fear of displeasing Senhor Morais, were nothing to do with love for her daughter; all she cared about was the small monthly allowance Lídia gave her.

Lips still quivering with rage, Lídia went back into the bedroom to get dressed and put on her makeup. She was going for a stroll in the Baixa, just as she had told her mother. What could be more innocent? And yet her mother's insinuating comments almost made her feel like going back to doing what she had done for years: meeting some man in a furnished room in the city, a room intended for brief assignations, with the inevitable bed, the inevitable screen, the inevitable bits of furniture with empty drawers. While she was applying cream to her face, she remembered what used to happen during those evenings and nights, and the thought depressed her. She didn't want to go back to that. Not because she loved Paulino Morais; she would have no compunction about deceiving him, and the only reason she didn't was because she valued her security. She knew men too well to love any of them. Start over again? No! How often had she gone in search of a satisfaction she never received? She did it for the money, of course, and she got that because she deserved it. But how often had she emerged from one of those rooms feeling dissatisfied, offended, deceived! How often had the whole sequence been repeated—room, man, dissatisfaction! Later, it might be a different man, a different room, but the dissatisfaction never disappeared, never diminished.

On the marble top of the dressing table, among the bottles and jars, next to the photo of Paulino Morais, lay the second volume of
The Maias.
She leafed through it, looking for the passage she had marked with lipstick. She reread it, then slowly put the book down and, with her eyes fixed on her own reflection—where she saw a look of amazement reminiscent of her mother's—she rapidly reviewed her life: light and dark, farce and tragedy, dissatisfaction and deceit.

It was almost half past four by the time she had finished dressing. She looked very pretty. She had excellent taste in clothes and never wore anything outlandish. She had put on a gray tailored suit that gave her body a sinuous, supple shape, a body that obliged men in the street to stop and look. A combination of the miraculous skills of the dressmaker and the instincts of a woman who earns her living with her body.

She went down the stairs with a light step to avoid making too much noise with her heels. There were people outside Silvestre's apartment. The door stood wide open, and the cobbler was helping a young man carry in a large trunk. Out on the landing, Mariana was holding a smaller suitcase. Lídia greeted them:

“Good afternoon.”

Mariana responded. Silvestre, in order to return her greeting, had to pause and look around. Lídia's gaze passed over his head and alighted with some curiosity on the face of the young man. Abel looked at her too. Seeing his new lodger's questioning expression, Silvestre smiled and winked at him. Abel understood.

When Adriana appeared around the corner, walking fast, the day was already growing dark and one could sense the night in the quiet onset of twilight, which all the noise of the city could not cancel out. She took the stairs two at a time, her heart protesting at the effort, then rang the bell frantically and waited with some impatience for her mother to open the door.

“Hello, Mama. Has it started yet?” she asked, kissing her mother on the cheek.

“Slow down, child, slow down. No, it hasn't started yet. Why all the rush?”

“I was afraid I might miss it. I was kept late at the office, typing some urgent letters.”

They went into the kitchen. The lights were on. The radio was playing softly in the background. Isaura was still busy sewing, hunched over a pink shirt. Adriana kissed her sister and her aunt, then sat down to catch her breath.

“I'm absolutely exhausted! Good heavens, Isaura, what is that hideous thing you're making?”

Her sister looked up and smiled:

“The man who's going to wear this shirt must be a complete and utter idiot. I can see him now in the shop, gazing goggle-eyed at this ‘thing of beauty,' ready to give the clothes off his back to pay for it!”

They both laughed. Cândida commented:

“You two don't have a good word to say about anyone!”

Amélia agreed with her nieces and, addressing Cândida, said:

“So, in your opinion, would it be a sign of good taste to wear a shirt like that?”

“People can dress as they like,” said Cândida with unusual forthrightness.

“That's not an opinion!”

“Shh!” said Isaura. “Listen!”

The announcer was introducing a piece of music.

“No, that's not it,” said Adriana.

There was a package next to the radio. Given the size and shape, it looked like a book. Adriana picked it up and asked:

“What's this? Another book?”

“Yes,” said her sister.

“What's it called?”

“The Nun.”

“Who's the author?”

“Diderot. I've never read anything by him before.”

Adriana put the book down and promptly forgot about it. She didn't care much for books. Like her sister, mother and aunt, she adored music, but she found books boring. They took pages and pages to tell a story that could have been told in just a few words. She couldn't understand how Isaura could spend so much time reading, sometimes into the small hours. With music, on the other hand, Adriana could happily sit up all night listening and never tire of it. And it was a pleasure they all enjoyed, which was just as well, because there would have been terrible arguments if they didn't.

“That's it,” said Isaura. “Turn the volume up.”

Adriana twiddled one of the knobs. The announcer's voice filled the apartment.

“ . . .
The Dance of the Dead
by Honegger. Libretto by Paul Claudel. Performed by Jean-Louis Barrault.”

In the kitchen, a coffeepot was whistling. Aunt Amélia removed it from the gas. They heard the sound of the needle being placed on the record, and then the stirring, dramatic voice of Jean-Louis Barrault made the four walls tremble. No one moved. They stared at the luminous eye on the front of the radio, as if the music were coming from there. In the interval between the first record and the second, they could hear, coming from the next room, the strident, grating, metallic sound of ragtime. Aunt Amélia frowned, Cândida sighed, Isaura stabbed her needle hard into the shirt, and Adriana shot a murderous glance at the wall.

“Turn it up,” said Aunt Amélia.

Adriana did as asked. Jean-Louis's voice roared out “
J'existe!,
” the music swirled across the “
vaste plaine,
” and the jittery notes of ragtime mingled heretically with the dance “
sur le pont d'Avignon.
”

“Louder!”

The chorus of the dead, in a thousand cries of despair and sorrow, declared their pain and remorse, and the Dies Irae smothered and overwhelmed the giggling of a lively clarinet. Blaring out of the loudspeaker, Honegger managed finally to vanquish that anonymous piece of ragtime. Perhaps Maria Cláudia had grown tired of her favorite program of dance tunes, or perhaps she had been frightened by the bellowing of divine fury made music. Once the last notes of
The Dance of the Dead
had dissolved in the air, Amélia, grumbling, set about making supper. Cândida moved away, fearing an approaching storm, even though she felt equally indignant. The two sisters, carried away by the music, were ablaze with holy anger.

“It just seems impossible,” Amélia said at last. “I don't mean that we're better than other people, but it just seems impossible that anyone could possibly like that music of the mad!”

“But some people do, Aunt,” said Adriana.

“I can see that!”

“Not everyone grows up listening to good music,” added Isaura.

“I know that too, but surely everyone should be capable of separating the wheat from the chaff, putting the bad on one side and the good on the other.”

Cândida, who was getting the dishes out of the cupboard, ventured to say:

“That's just not possible. The good and the bad, the bad and the good, are always intermingled. No one and nothing is ever completely good or completely bad. At least that's what I think,” she added timidly.

Amélia turned to her sister, brandishing the spoon she was using to taste the soup.