water flowed from some inner fountain and what she offered the footsteps of passing strangers was parched, colourless sand. But she was walking onwards, ever onwards, as one walks along the shore, the wind caressing her face, blowing her hair back.
How was she to tell them: this is the second attack of vertigo today, even though she desperately wanted to confide in someone? For no one else in her life, no one else would probably ever say to her like the teacher: one lives and one dies. Everyone was forgetting that all they wanted to do was to amuse themselves. She looked at them. Her aunt amused herself with the house, the cook, her husband, with her married daughter and visitors. Her uncle amused himself with his job, his farm, a game of chess, the newspapers. Joana tried to analyse them, thinking that in this way she could destroy them. Yes, they were fond of each other in a distant, familiar way. From time to time, absorbed in their games, they would glance at each other anxiously, as if to reassure themselves that they still existed. Only to resume that lukewarm distance between them which lessened when one of them went down with flu or had a birthday. They certainly slept in the same bed, Joana thought without satisfaction or malice.
Her aunt held out the plate of bread in silence. Her uncle didn't so much as raise his eyes from his plate.
Eating was a matter of great concern in that household, Joana continued. During meals, his arms resting firmly on the table, the man nourished himself as he gasped for breath because he suffered from heart trouble. As he chewed, with some crumb or morsel of food stuck to his mouth, he stared with a glazed expression at some object or other, his attention focused on the inner sensations produced by the food. Her aunt crossed her ankles under her chair. With puckered eyebrows, she ate with a curiosity which renewed itself with every mouthful, her face rejuvenated and mobile. But why were they not sitting back comfortably in their chairs today? Why were they taking so much care not to make a noise with their cutlery, as if someone were dead or asleep? It's because of me, Joana decided.
Around the dark table, under the light weakened by the lamp's soiled fringes, silence, too, had settled that night. Now and then, Joana paused to listen to the sound of those two mouths chewing and to the quick, restless tick-tock of the clock. Then the woman lifted her eyes and rooted to the spot, with her fork in one hand, she waited, apprehensive and defeated. Joana averted her gaze. Triumphant, she lowered her head with a profound happiness that was inexplicably mingled with a sharp tightening in her throat, making it impossible to sob.
— Has Armanda not come? — Joana's voice accelerated the tick-tock of the clock, provoked a sudden rapid movement at the table.
Her uncle and aunt eyed each other furtively. Joana sighed aloud: was she afraid of her then?
— Armanda's husband isn't on duty today, so she isn't coming to dinner, her aunt finally replied. And suddenly, as if satisfied, she began eating. Her uncle chewed more quickly. Silence returned without dissolving the distant murmur of the sea. So, they didn't have the courage.
— When am I being sent to boarding-school? — Joana asked.
The soup tureen slipped from her aunt's hands, the dark, cynical broth spread rapidly over the table. Her uncle rested his knife and fork on his plate, anguish written all over his face.
— How do you know that... he stammered in confusion... She had been listening at the door...
The drenched tablecloth gave off gentle fumes like the dying embers of a fire. Immobile and mesmerised as if she were confronting something beyond remedy, the woman stared at the spilled soup which was rapidly getting cold.
The water, blind and deaf, but happily not mute, sparkling and bubbling as if splashed on the bright enamel of the bathtub. The bathroom was filled with warm vapours, the mirrors covered in steam,
How was she to tell them: this is the second attack of vertigo today, even though she desperately wanted to confide in someone? For no one else in her life, no one else would probably ever say to her like the teacher: one lives and one dies. Everyone was forgetting that all they wanted to do was to amuse themselves. She looked at them. Her aunt amused herself with the house, the cook, her husband, with her married daughter and visitors. Her uncle amused himself with his job, his farm, a game of chess, the newspapers. Joana tried to analyse them, thinking that in this way she could destroy them. Yes, they were fond of each other in a distant, familiar way. From time to time, absorbed in their games, they would glance at each other anxiously, as if to reassure themselves that they still existed. Only to resume that lukewarm distance between them which lessened when one of them went down with flu or had a birthday. They certainly slept in the same bed, Joana thought without satisfaction or malice.
Her aunt held out the plate of bread in silence. Her uncle didn't so much as raise his eyes from his plate.
Eating was a matter of great concern in that household, Joana continued. During meals, his arms resting firmly on the table, the man nourished himself as he gasped for breath because he suffered from heart trouble. As he chewed, with some crumb or morsel of food stuck to his mouth, he stared with a glazed expression at some object or other, his attention focused on the inner sensations produced by the food. Her aunt crossed her ankles under her chair. With puckered eyebrows, she ate with a curiosity which renewed itself with every mouthful, her face rejuvenated and mobile. But why were they not sitting back comfortably in their chairs today? Why were they taking so much care not to make a noise with their cutlery, as if someone were dead or asleep? It's because of me, Joana decided.
Around the dark table, under the light weakened by the lamp's soiled fringes, silence, too, had settled that night. Now and then, Joana paused to listen to the sound of those two mouths chewing and to the quick, restless tick-tock of the clock. Then the woman lifted her eyes and rooted to the spot, with her fork in one hand, she waited, apprehensive and defeated. Joana averted her gaze. Triumphant, she lowered her head with a profound happiness that was inexplicably mingled with a sharp tightening in her throat, making it impossible to sob.
— Has Armanda not come? — Joana's voice accelerated the tick-tock of the clock, provoked a sudden rapid movement at the table.
Her uncle and aunt eyed each other furtively. Joana sighed aloud: was she afraid of her then?
— Armanda's husband isn't on duty today, so she isn't coming to dinner, her aunt finally replied. And suddenly, as if satisfied, she began eating. Her uncle chewed more quickly. Silence returned without dissolving the distant murmur of the sea. So, they didn't have the courage.
— When am I being sent to boarding-school? — Joana asked.
The soup tureen slipped from her aunt's hands, the dark, cynical broth spread rapidly over the table. Her uncle rested his knife and fork on his plate, anguish written all over his face.
— How do you know that... he stammered in confusion... She had been listening at the door...
The drenched tablecloth gave off gentle fumes like the dying embers of a fire. Immobile and mesmerised as if she were confronting something beyond remedy, the woman stared at the spilled soup which was rapidly getting cold.
The water, blind and deaf, but happily not mute, sparkling and bubbling as if splashed on the bright enamel of the bathtub. The bathroom was filled with warm vapours, the mirrors covered in steam,
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