The slow, weary silence, already thirteen hours old, composed of whispers with the occasional sigh or sob punctuating the long, interminable night, that same difficult silence against which no one dared rebel was suddenly torn apart, shattered, by Genoveva’s unreasonably loud, strident voice: “Oh, dear God, how dreadful! How is it possible!”
It was possible, however, and for the moment, nothing could be more real or more palpable, they all thought in unison with the exception perhaps of Sara, the oldest sister, who was stone deaf and tended not to think, but to vegetate, smiling or pondering prayers. And then the murmuring suddenly stopped, as if entirely absorbed by that one idea, just as the sobbing and, naturally enough, the subsequent sniffling, grew faster and more intense.
Standing motionless at the sacristy door, Genoveva, all in black, still elegant despite her slightly careless, disheveled appearance, and giving off a strong smell of naphthalene, was looking around her, stunned, as if waiting for someone to tell her that it really was impossible.
There it was, though, in the middle of the large, cold sacristy full of long shadows (which sometimes, as if stirred by an invisible breath, moved very slowly, licking the grubby walls) and damp, musty corners where the light didn’t reach. Where, one might say, the light had never reached.
A short, very thin woman, old before her time, her eyes red and febrile, suddenly started to her feet and went stumbling and tottering over to the new arrival, whom she clasped convulsively to her. “Genoveva, Genoveva… Our António, your brother, is dead…” And she held Genoveva close, then studied her face with wide, wild eyes. Then she went over to the coffin—adorned with ornate needle lace and pink gladioli—fearfully drew back the linen cloth covering the dead man’s face, and burst into tears. “It’s Genoveva, António. She came at once, the poor thing. It’s Genoveva…”
Everyone automatically looked at the stiff body lying in its final resting place. Extraordinarily big, bigger than ever, and imposing in his definitive immobility. Genoveva knelt down, rapidly crossed herself, then went to look at him for the last time and run her hand over his cold, smooth brow.
It was the face of a recumbent statue, serene, at rest, happy. All suffering, past and future, expunged. Or was this now merely the redundant shell the creature had sloughed off? Where could he have gone; where was he? Was he there, all of him, preparing to rot? No, no, that was impossible. Now, in the face of death, she refused to believe in what she had always believed to be natural and sensible. She felt tears trembling on her fair eyelashes. Why such grief, such suffering for that thing? Was it possible?
António looked so serene. Him serene? Yes, serene. Him, the man lying there. That thing. Oh, what did it matter? He was smiling…or was he? No, perhaps he wasn’t. It was the knowing expression he would adopt sometimes when looking at other people, all the while thinking that he was so much cleverer than them, and that no one would ever get the better of him. The man hasn’t been born yet, he would say. Or perhaps he didn’t; no, she had never heard him say such a thing. But those words were so visible on his face that it was as if she had heard him say it a million times. The man hasn’t been born yet… That was her brother… She was getting used to the idea; people always do get used to ideas, even the most unexpected, the hardest to accept. Yes, it was possible. Everything was possible. That was her brother.
That was my father, thought Jaime, hunched at one end of the bench, leaning against the huge closet containing the priest’s vestments. His father. So terrifyingly still and silent. The same father who, only the night before, had yelled at the maid because there wasn’t enough salt in the food and at him that morning because he had spent too long in the bathroom. So many unnecessary things. We live and die surrounded by unnecessary things, worrying and battling… He stood up to go over and put his arm around the bowed shoulders of his mother, who was still staring at her husband’s face and weeping, her handkerchief in her hand. Was that a necessary gesture, he wondered. No, it wasn’t, but he had to do it.
“You’ve got to be brave, Mama. It’s horrible, I know, we all know it’s horrible, but what can we do? Dad was ill; we were expecting this to happen, weren’t we? The doctor had said as much…” Then he kissed his Aunt Genoveva, indicated the place where he had been sitting and said, “Go and sit down; you must be very tired after your journey.”
Genoveva went to greet Sara and the women friends who were also there, then slumped down on the bench, and the silence closed in again, deeper and heavier.
“This solves everything; now there won’t be any more complications,” Júlio had said to her a few hours earlier, when he had seen her off at the station. “That’s at least some consolation. If there can be any.”
And she had felt inside her a faint glimmer of pleasure, which she immediately rejected, brushing it aside with her hand in a tremulous, troubled, remorseful gesture. That heavy silence, though, proved useful for clarifying the very sketchy ideas that came to her unbidden, unwanted, spiraling around her until they fixed on one point, on the point, from where, so to speak, they eyed her boldly. Don’t you see, Genoveva? Now, everything is simple; all the windows have been flung open; you can finally enjoy the sun… The sun, Genoveva, just imagine that.
Her brother, poor thing, had consigned her to the night or, at the very least, to darkness. For six years. “Do whatever you like; you’re a grownup and it’s none of my business. But I won’t open my door to you, you hear. I won’t have you shame me.” “António, don’t you understand; I can’t get a divorce. I’m still a young woman, and I love Júlio.” “All I understand is that I don’t want people pointing at my sister in the street. That’s all I understand. All right?”
These were sterile conversations that led nowhere, only to the usual cul-de-sac. And she continued living alone in the town in the north where Júlio lived (this had been António’s one concession) and to have him visit her when no one was looking and to otherwise feign complete indifference whenever they met in public. “Hello, how have you been? Long time, no see… How are things?” She even began to hate herself for agreeing so easily, even eagerly, to playing that game. She didn’t hate her brother; she loved him too much. He was a very upright man who placed honesty above all else. What could be more natural?
Where were her brother’s honesty and intransigence now? They had died. All that remained was that empty body covered in silence and pink gladioli.
Then came the faint, reticent morning light and the sound of solemn footsteps approaching down the aisle. It was the sacristan. Her thoughts stopped, the thread broke, and Genoveva was once again simply there in the sacristy, watching the sacristan change the burned-out candles for tall, yellowish ones. The widow blew her nose, then, turning to her son, said in a tearful voice:
“Go home, my dear. Remember, you have an exam in a couple of days. Go and rest a little.”
“Don’t worry, Mama. There’s time.”
Now, suddenly—how long had the idea been germinating inside him?—Jaime knew he wouldn’t be taking that exam the day after tomorrow, that he wasn’t going to go through that door beyond which lay a life that wasn’t his, a life he rejected. Now he would be able to fight; it’s so easy to fight a weaker opponent… It would never have been possible with his father. His loud voice drowning out all other voices, smothering them, killing them, and abandoning them once they had fallen silent. He had never been able to talk to his father, to discuss a problem. Besides, his father didn’t like discussing problems. He always had a solution, and his certainties were so unshakeable that there had never been any need to put them to the test. He, Jaime, had to study law because it was only logical that he should take over his father’s practice and his clientele. There was no question about this, was there? None at all. Becoming an artist… But what did that mean, becoming an artist? Mere childishness. A pastime worthy only of life’s failures.
No, he could never have fought his father, but his mother was a different matter. Not right away: that would be difficult, his father would still be a presence, and his giving up a career in law would seem to her, poor woman, a betrayal. How can you, my son, with your father barely cold in his grave… Or something of the sort. But he had to do it. Perhaps he would pretend he had taken the exam, because it was still too soon for her to be able to listen to him calmly. Yes, he would tell her he had taken the exam…
“Isn’t that right, Jaime?”
He nodded a response to his Aunt Genoveva, with no idea what he was responding to. He only knew that they were, of course, talking about his father, and that his mother had again begun to cry, and one of her friends was urging her to accept his death and think of her son.
“Yes, you still have your son,” said Genoveva.
“Yes, I do; I still have Jaime, poor love. He’s such a good boy. But it’s not enough. I’m going to be left so alone. I already feel so alone… He was so strong, he knew everything, he always had a solution to everything. I always had him to lean on. It was all so simple, Genoveva. That’s how it always was, right from the beginning. Nineteen years we were married.”
“There, there…”
“You have to be brave, my dear…”
“These are misfortunes we all have to face at some point…”
“That’s life, and there’s nothing to be done about it…”
There’s nothing to be done about it… That’s what she had always thought, which is why she had never done anything. She had allowed herself to be carried along, saying nothing, pretending. She had spent her whole life pretending. What else could someone like her do, someone so terrified of life? He would have supper out and neglect to tell her where—she had found that monogrammed handkerchief in his pocket, an M and an A intertwined—and he would arrive home late one night or even on two or three consecutive nights or, indeed, every night and offer vague excuses no one had asked him for, and for which she no longer bothered to ask because she was afraid of what she might hear. It was so large, the heart inside her breast, overflowing with tears, and then it had gradually grown so small, so shriveled, so hard. And she said nothing that might bring comfort to that heart… What would happen if she spoke? It might be a trap. But that uncertainty slowly wore away at her, and she became lined and wrinkled before her time. Old, yes, she was growing older by the day… His voice came back to her; it was there in her head, clear and robust and certain. “I won’t be home for supper tonight. I told you that already, didn’t I?” No, he hadn’t. “Oh, I thought I had. A meeting with a client, a real bore, but I can’t not go. I’ll be back late, but don’t wait up for me. It irritates me when I see you’ve been waiting up for me. Whatever for?” Yes, whatever for?
The voice fell silent, to be replaced by sobs. Her sobs.
It was then that Sara broke the silence with a question, an awkward question as her rare questions usually were, and almost always peculiar to her.
“What if he isn’t dead? There are such cases. I read about it in the paper. Ca-ta-lep-si-a!”
The widow let out a scream, and Genoveva said very loudly to Sara, “Don’t be such a fool!” Then she got up and again went over to the large, motionless body beneath the flowers. She lifted up the white cloth and gazed eagerly and fixedly at the face of her imminent freedom. Jaime felt his heart beating very fast and didn’t dare to move. Genoveva returned to her place and said in a trembling voice:
“No, poor António is well and truly dead. There are already some purplish patches on his face, poor man. Didn’t anyone bring some camphor?”
The widow gave a faint sigh and huddled down on the bench between her sister and her sister-in-law. Jaime offered to go to the nearby pharmacy, not realizing that this helpful gesture was, after all, a contribution to the definitive death of his father.