unpunished, her promise of youth, that fragile and ardent stem. And before he could restrain the thought — his hands clenched under the table, it came without mercy: the selfishness and crude hunger of old age was encroaching. Oh, how he loathed himself for having thought of this. 'Her', his wife, was the prettier? The 'other one' was also pretty. And also the 'other one' of this evening. But who possessed that shapeless body, those nervous legs, breasts still unformed? — the miracle: still unformed, he thought, feeling giddy, his vision blurred. Who was like clear, fresh water? The hunger of old age was encroaching. He cringed, terrified, furious, cowardly.
His wife came back into the room. She had changed for the evening, her compact frame swathed in a blue, woollen dress. Her husband stared at her at length, with a vague, somewhat foolish expression on his face. She stared back at him, looking thoughtful and enigmatic with the merest trace of a smile lurking beneath the surface. Joana felt inhibited, became insignificant and dull before that radiant complexion. The shame of the scene that had taken place earlier came flooding back and left her feeling absurd.
— I'm just going — she said.
The wife — or was she mistaken? — the wife looked her straight in the eye, understanding, understanding! And then raised her head, her bright, steady eyes expressing triumph, perhaps even betraying a grain of sympathy:
— When shall we see you again, Joana? you should come and have a chat with the teacher more often...
With the teacher, she said, toying with intimacy, and she was white and smooth. Not miserable and not knowing about anything, not abandoned, not with dirty knees like Joana, like Joana! Joana got up and she knew that her skirt was too short, that her blouse was sticking to her tiny, underdeveloped breasts. She must escape, run to the beach, lie face down on the sands, hide her face, listen to the sound of the sea.
She shook the woman's soft hand, shook his great paw, bigger than a man's hand.
— Don't you want to take your book?
Joana turned round and caught him. She caught his expression. Ah, discovery shone inside her, that look resembling a handshake, that look that knew she longed for the beach. But why so weak, so bereft of happiness? What had happened in the end? Only a few hours ago they were calling her a viper, the teacher fled, his wife waiting... What was happening? Everything was retreating... And suddenly the setting detached itself in her conscience with a screech, stood out in every detail, burying the characters under a huge wave... Her very feet were floating. The room where she had spent so many afternoons glowed in the crescendo of an orchestra, making no sound, taking revenge on her distraction. From one moment to the next, Joana discovered the unsuspected power of that quiet room. It was strange, silent, absent, as if they had never set foot there, as if it were some reminiscence. Things had preserved themselves until now and then drawn near to Joana, surrounding her, shining in the semi-darkness of twilight. Perplexed, she saw the naked statue standing on top of the gleaming display-cabinet, the lines gently faded as in the finale of a movement. The silence of those elegant, immobile chairs transmitted itself to her brain, draining it slowly... She heard quick footsteps out in the street, saw that tall, thoughtful woman staring at her as well as that stockily-built man, with bent shoulders. What did they expect of her? — she was frightened. She felt the hard cover of the book between her fingers, far, far away as if a great chasm were separating her from her own hands. What then? Why did every human being have something to say to her? Why, why? And what did they want of her, constantly sucking her dry? Vertigo, rapid as a whirlwind, took control of her head, causing her legs to wobble. She stood before them for several minutes, silent, absorbing the atmosphere of the house, but
His wife came back into the room. She had changed for the evening, her compact frame swathed in a blue, woollen dress. Her husband stared at her at length, with a vague, somewhat foolish expression on his face. She stared back at him, looking thoughtful and enigmatic with the merest trace of a smile lurking beneath the surface. Joana felt inhibited, became insignificant and dull before that radiant complexion. The shame of the scene that had taken place earlier came flooding back and left her feeling absurd.
— I'm just going — she said.
The wife — or was she mistaken? — the wife looked her straight in the eye, understanding, understanding! And then raised her head, her bright, steady eyes expressing triumph, perhaps even betraying a grain of sympathy:
— When shall we see you again, Joana? you should come and have a chat with the teacher more often...
With the teacher, she said, toying with intimacy, and she was white and smooth. Not miserable and not knowing about anything, not abandoned, not with dirty knees like Joana, like Joana! Joana got up and she knew that her skirt was too short, that her blouse was sticking to her tiny, underdeveloped breasts. She must escape, run to the beach, lie face down on the sands, hide her face, listen to the sound of the sea.
She shook the woman's soft hand, shook his great paw, bigger than a man's hand.
— Don't you want to take your book?
Joana turned round and caught him. She caught his expression. Ah, discovery shone inside her, that look resembling a handshake, that look that knew she longed for the beach. But why so weak, so bereft of happiness? What had happened in the end? Only a few hours ago they were calling her a viper, the teacher fled, his wife waiting... What was happening? Everything was retreating... And suddenly the setting detached itself in her conscience with a screech, stood out in every detail, burying the characters under a huge wave... Her very feet were floating. The room where she had spent so many afternoons glowed in the crescendo of an orchestra, making no sound, taking revenge on her distraction. From one moment to the next, Joana discovered the unsuspected power of that quiet room. It was strange, silent, absent, as if they had never set foot there, as if it were some reminiscence. Things had preserved themselves until now and then drawn near to Joana, surrounding her, shining in the semi-darkness of twilight. Perplexed, she saw the naked statue standing on top of the gleaming display-cabinet, the lines gently faded as in the finale of a movement. The silence of those elegant, immobile chairs transmitted itself to her brain, draining it slowly... She heard quick footsteps out in the street, saw that tall, thoughtful woman staring at her as well as that stockily-built man, with bent shoulders. What did they expect of her? — she was frightened. She felt the hard cover of the book between her fingers, far, far away as if a great chasm were separating her from her own hands. What then? Why did every human being have something to say to her? Why, why? And what did they want of her, constantly sucking her dry? Vertigo, rapid as a whirlwind, took control of her head, causing her legs to wobble. She stood before them for several minutes, silent, absorbing the atmosphere of the house, but
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