It was at the end of the intermission, when the bell was ringing and people had started returning to their seats, that she heard the voice behind her. “No, what nonsense, how could it possibly be by Fellini!” A slightly irritated, angry voice, oozing exasperation, as if everything around him were, always had been, and always would be in saecula saeculorum, a perpetual source of annoyance. He said this while thinking of something else—yes, he was clearly thinking of something else. Perhaps about taking flight but without knowing quite where to land. Or even if he should land. But this wasn’t because he felt superior, just weary. She knew it was weariness. How could she not know?
Because when you think about it, time passes and all that’s left of people are old fossilized images. Images that no longer exist. Did they ever exist as we see them now? Everything is constantly dying. The man sitting behind her was not the same man; she didn’t know him…not now. How many different men would he have been in the last twenty years! And how many deaths had she died! Despite this…
Then, as now, his voice had also come out of nowhere. “What a lovely night! It’s such a shame it should end so soon. What kind of day will it be tomorrow?” She had replied without looking at him; she didn’t need to, for she had heard only him since the moment he arrived: “Why, it’ll be just another day, of course.” But those were mere words. She knew that tomorrow would be different because he would still be there in that tomorrow. She could think about him, dream about him. But who can hold on to their dreams?
She was standing at the window in Aninha’s living room, the windows open onto the garden, and she could smell the spring. She really could. Why had she never been able to smell it like that since? It was a mixture of…oh, she had no idea! She had never been any good at distinguishing different smells. She had a terrible sense of smell! But that day… Not that she could summon it up again now. And yet at the time…
“But who gave you the idea that it was by Fellini?”
“I don’t know…I really don’t… Perhaps it was Manuel… I can’t quite recall, but, yes, I think it was Manuel…”
The voice was faint and timid, timorous and tiny. A voice apologizing for its very existence. Or perhaps contrite.
There’s nothing you can do, my dear, nothing at all, she thought. You just have to wait. You’re not strong enough; you don’t have the necessary courage; you can’t just stand there on the edge of the abyss, waiting for who knows what. Is that how it is? Well, so much the worse for you.
“By Fellini? But didn’t you see that a complete and utter dud like this couldn’t possibly be by him… Only someone with not the slightest inkling…”
The dud recommenced. And it really was a dud, and she closed her eyes, pleased that he and she were still in agreement (an invisible link of which he was quite oblivious), and she again allowed herself to be drawn along deserted paths to that living room. She had been wearing her best dress, turquoise silk, new patent leather shoes worn specially for the occasion, the three-stranded necklace a university colleague had lent her. Baroque pearls. Oh, how she loved that necklace. She had spent the afternoon stroking the pearls with the tips of her fingers, cautiously, as if they were made of flesh, and when she put the necklace on, something happened, and she was suddenly no longer herself, but someone else. Her usual dull, timid self? No, she was strangely sure of herself and even came up with the perfect response to the famous pianist, saying that the next day would be the same as all the others: “Why, it’ll be just another day of course.”
How foolish to look back! To seek out memories that had ended up collecting dust in the lost corners of time. Or not even that. Memories at which time had eaten away. What would his face be like? She would still be capable of giving a detailed, literary description. But to see his face, to actually see it?
On the screen, the star of the movie was adjusting her garters while sitting on the edge of a miserable bed, and everyone knew she was thinking about the man she would meet a few moments later. Meanwhile, she was thinking about him, about the face she could no longer quite summon up, the face of the man sitting behind her, right behind her.
He always used to get her a free ticket whenever he was giving a concert and would sometimes look at her from the stage and smile discreetly. A smile that was just between them and that no one else would notice, because she would never smile back; that was their tacit agreement. A slightly acidic, weary smile, a teeny-tiny bit (but only a teeny-tiny bit) happy.
And what about her, she thought. Had she been happy? In the early days, yes, she really had, no doubt about it. Alone in the vast city where she had gone to study, she had grown drunk on a freedom she didn’t make use of because she didn’t know how. But then he arrived, and it was a revelation, swiftly followed by anguish and pain.
Then one day, that slightly irritated, sulky tone had appeared in his voice. “No, what nonsense, of course it’s not by Fellini…” Or something along those lines. That poor woman with her frightened little voice. No, that relationship wasn’t going to last very long, not long at all. She knew. Who better than she?
One evening when they were together, she asked him, “You seem miles away. Where were you?” He had started laughing. “Do I have to be somewhere? Is that absolutely necessary?” “Yes, it is.” “The fact is, I wasn’t here, but in Copacabana. Did I mention that I might be going to Brazil? I’ve received an interesting invitation.” “When would you go?” “This month.” “Will you stay long?” “I don’t know.”
The quay, and the ship moving off as slowly and inexorably as time. She had gone to say goodbye, despite it all. Despite knowing that this was the last line on the last page. Despite having seen the end in his eyes, in his weary voice.
What if she left before the lights came up? But then she wouldn’t see him. Not that she still loved him. Twenty years are twenty years, and many days had raced by since. Now she was a placid middle-aged lady, very attached to her worldly goods and with a daughter about to get married. At seventeen… Well, the boy in question seemed a decent fellow and had his own money. And he was clearly very fond of her daughter. And, fortunately, he wasn’t an artist. He had his feet firmly on the ground. As had her husband for that matter. A highly respected businessman. Say what you like, but this did give you a sense of security… It was, how could she put it, reassuring, a source of peace.
No, she may no longer love that man, but she still wanted to see him. To see her youth in his face. Inside her there was also a slight, unacknowledged curiosity to see “her” too, the woman with the fearful voice, whom he would one day leave.
She waited until the end. Then, when the lights came up, she got quickly, hastily, to her feet. He had stood up too, and he was still just as handsome, more so if that was possible, and beside him, a young but rather faded woman was looking at him anxiously, asking in a tremulous voice, “Were you very bored? If I’d known it was going to be that bad, I would never have suggested coming. Really.”
Then, for one brief, fleeting moment, he looked at her. Quite naturally and without even seeing her, yes, her.
No, he hadn’t recognized her. Twenty years, dyed-blonde hair, not to mention the ravages of time. As well as the extra twenty-two pounds she had put on.
How sad it all was. All what? Everything.
Over supper, she hardly spoke. She had a terrible headache, she said. She’d take a paracetamol and go to bed. She’d been to see a dreadful movie. A real dud, she said almost savoring the word.
“Really? What was it?” asked her husband purely out of politeness.
“I don’t even know. I just went in out of the rain. It rained this afternoon, did you notice? Anyway, it definitely wasn’t by Fellini…”
“Who said it was?”
She laughed awkwardly.
“I don’t know. I can’t remember, but someone did.”
She almost said: “It was Manuel.” Madness. She gave another nervous laugh, then went to bed. She wept a little before falling asleep. The following morning, though, she woke in an excellent mood and recalled that encounter almost without emotion. And during the busy day that followed, full of things to do, she thought no more about it.