They were some perfect roses, several on the same stem. At some point they’d climbed over one another with nimble eagerness but then, once the game was over, they had tranquilly stopped moving. They were some roses so perfect in their smallness, not entirely in bloom, and their pinkish hue was nearly white. They even look fake! she said in surprise. They might look white if they were completely open but, with their central petals curled into buds, their color was concentrated and, as inside an earlobe, you could feel the redness coursing through them. They’re so lovely, thought Laura in surprise.
But without knowing why, she was a little embarrassed, a little disturbed. Oh, not too much, it was just that extreme beauty made her uncomfortable.
She heard the maid’s footsteps on the kitchen tile and could tell from the hollow sound that she was wearing heels; so she must be ready to leave. Then Laura had a somewhat original idea: why not ask Maria to stop by Carlota’s and leave her the roses as a present?
And also because that extreme beauty made her uncomfortable. Uncomfortable? It was a risk. Oh, no, why would it be a risk? They just made her uncomfortable, they were a warning, oh no, why would they be a warning? Maria would give Carlota the roses.
“Dona Laura sent them,” Maria would say.
She smiled thoughtfully: Carlota would think it odd that Laura, who could bring the roses herself, since she wanted to give them as a present, sent them with the maid before dinner. Not to mention she’d find it amusing to get roses, she’d think it “refined” . . .
“There’s no need for things like that between us, Laura!” her friend would say with that slightly rude bluntness, and Laura would exclaim in a muffled cry of rapture:
“Oh no! no! It’s not because you invited us to dinner! it’s just that the roses were so lovely I decided on a whim to give them to you!”
Yes, if when the time came she could find a way and got the nerve, that’s exactly what she’d say. How was it again that she’d say it? she mustn’t forget: she’d say — “Oh no!” etc. And Carlota would be surprised by the delicacy of Laura’s feelings, no one would ever imagine that Laura too had her little ideas. In this imaginary and agreeable scene that made her smile beatifically, she called herself “Laura,” as if referring to a third person. A third person full of that gentle and crackling and grateful and tranquil faith, Laura, the one with the little real-lace collar, discreetly dressed, Armando’s wife, finally an Armando who no longer needed to force himself to pay attention to all of her chattering about the maid and meat, who no longer needed to think about his wife, like a man who is happy, like a man who isn’t married to a ballerina.
“I couldn’t help but send you the roses,” Laura would say, that third person so, so very . . . And giving the roses was nearly as lovely as the roses themselves.
And indeed she’d be rid of them.
And what indeed would happen then? Ah, yes: as she was saying, Carlota surprised by that Laura who was neither intelligent nor good but who also had her secret feelings. And Armando? Armando would look at her with a healthy dose of astonishment — since you can’t forget there’s no possible way for him to know that the maid brought the roses this afternoon! — Armando would look fondly on the whims of his little woman, and that night they’d sleep together.
And she’d have forgotten the roses and their beauty.
No, she thought suddenly vaguely forewarned. She must watch out for other people’s alarmed stares. She must never again give cause for alarm, especially with everything still so recent. And most important of all was sparing everyone from suffering the least bit of doubt. And never again cause other people to fuss over her — never again that awful thing where everyone stared at her mutely, and her right there in front of everyone. No whims.
But at the same time she saw the empty glass of milk in her hand and also thought: “he” said not to strain myself to make it work, not to worry about acting a certain way just to prove that I’m already . . .
“Maria,” she then said upon hearing the maid’s footsteps again. And when Maria approached, she said impetuously and defiantly: “Could you stop by Dona Carlota’s and leave these roses for her? Say it like this: ‘Dona Carlota, Dona Laura sent these.’ Say it like this: ‘Dona Carlota . . .’ ”
“Got it, got it,” said the maid patiently.
Laura went to find an old piece of tissue paper. Then she carefully took the roses out of the vase, so lovely and tranquil, with their delicate and deadly thorns. She wanted to give the arrangement an artistic touch. And at the same time be rid of them. And she could get dressed and move on with her day. When she gathered the moist little roses into a bouquet, she extended the hand holding them, looked at them from a distance, tilting her head and narrowing her eyes for an impartial and severe judgment.
And when she looked at them, she saw the roses.
And then, stubborn, gentle, she coaxed inwardly: don’t give away the roses, they’re lovely.
A second later, still very gentle, the thought intensified slightly, almost tantalizing: don’t give them away, they’re yours. Laura gasped a little: because things were never hers.
But these roses were. Rosy, small, perfect: hers. She looked at them in disbelief: they were beautiful and hers. If she managed to think further, she’d think: hers like nothing else had ever been.
And she could even keep them since she’d already shed that initial discomfort that made her vaguely avoid looking at the roses too much.
Why give them away, then? lovely and you’re giving them away? After all when you happen upon a good thing, you just go and give it away? After all if they were hers, she coaxed persuasively without finding any argument besides the one that, with repetition, seemed increasingly convincing and simple. They wouldn’t last long — so why give them away while they were still alive? The pleasure of having them didn’t pose much of a risk — she deluded herself — after all, whether or not she wanted them, she’d have to give them up soon enough, and then she’d never think of them again since they’d be dead — they wouldn’t last long, so why give them away? The fact that they didn’t last long seemed to remove her guilt about keeping them, according to the obscure logic of a woman who sins. After all you could see they wouldn’t last long (it would be quick, free from danger). And besides — she argued in a final and triumphant rejection of guilt — by no means had she been the one who’d wanted to buy them, the vendor kept insisting and she always got so flustered when people put her on the spot, she hadn’t been the one who’d wanted to buy them, she was in no way to blame whatsoever. She looked at them entranced, thoughtful, profound.
And, honestly, I’ve never seen anything more perfect in all my life.
Fine, but now she’d already spoken to Maria and there was no way to turn back. So was it too late?, she got scared, seeing the little roses waiting impassively in her own hand. If she wanted, it wouldn’t be too late . . . She could tell Maria: “Listen Maria, I’ve decided to take the roses over myself when I go to dinner!” And, of course, she wouldn’t take them . . . And Maria would never have to know. And, before changing clothes, she’d sit on the sofa for a second, just a second, to look at them. And to look at those roses’ tranquil detachment. Yes, since, having done the deed, you might as well take advantage of it, wouldn’t it be silly to take the blame without reaping the rewards. That’s exactly what she’d do.
But with the unwrapped roses in her hand she waited. She wasn’t putting them back in the vase, she wasn’t calling Maria. She knew why. Because she ought to give them away. Oh she knew why.
And also because a pretty thing was meant for giving or receiving, not just having. And, above all, never just for “being.” Above all one should never be the pretty thing. A pretty thing lacked the gesture of giving. One should never keep a pretty thing, just like that, as if stowed inside the perfect silence of the heart. (Although, if she didn’t give away the roses, no one in th
e world would ever know that she’d planned to give them away, who would ever find out? it was horribly easy and doable to keep them, since who would ever find out? and they’d be hers, and that would be the end of it and no one would mention it again . . . )
So? and so? she wondered vaguely worried.
So, no. What she ought to do was wrap them up and send them off, without any enjoyment now; wrap them up and, disappointed, send them off; and in astonishment be rid of them. Also because a person must have some consistency, her thinking ought to have some continuity: if she’d spontaneously decided to hand them over to Carlota, she should stick to her decision and give them away. Because no one changed their mind from one moment to the next.
But anyone can have regrets! she suddenly rebelled. Since it was only the moment I picked the roses up that I realized how beautiful I thought they were, for the very first time in fact, when I picked them up, that’s when I realized they were beautiful. Or just before? (And besides they were hers). And besides the doctor himself had patted her on the back and said: “Don’t strain to pretend you’re well, ma’am, because you are well,” and then that firm pat on the back. That’s why, then, she didn’t have to be consistent, she didn’t have to prove anything to anyone and she’d keep the roses. (And besides — besides they were hers).
“Are they ready?” asked Maria.
“Yes,” said Laura caught by surprise.
She looked at them, so mute in her hand. Impersonal in their extreme beauty. In their extreme, perfect rose tranquility. That last resort: the flower. That final perfection: luminous tranquility.
Like an addict, she looked with faint greed at the roses’ tantalizing perfection, with her mouth slightly dry she looked at them.
Until, slow, austere, she wrapped the stems and thorns in the tissue paper. She had been so absorbed that only when she held out the finished bouquet did she realize that Maria was no longer in the room — and she was left alone with her heroic sacrifice. Vaguely afflicted, she looked at them, remote at the end of her outstretched arm — and her mouth grew still more parched, that envy, that desire. But they’re mine, she said with enormous timidity.
When Maria returned and took the bouquet, in a fleeting instant of greed Laura pulled her hand away keeping the roses one second longer — they’re lovely and they’re mine, it’s the first thing that’s lovely and mine! plus it was that man who insisted, it wasn’t me who went looking for them! fate wanted it this way! oh just this once! just this once and I swear never again! (She could at least take one rose for herself, no more than that: one rose for herself. And only she would know, and then never again oh, she promised herself that never again would she let herself be tempted by perfection, never again!)
And the next second, without any transition at all, without any obstacle at all — the roses were in the maid’s hand, they were no longer hers, like a letter already slipped into the mailbox! no more chances to take it back or cross anything out! it was no use crying: that’s not what I meant! She was left empty-handed but her obstinate and resentful heart was still saying: “you can catch Maria on the stairs, you know perfectly well you can, and snatch the roses from her hand and steal them.” Because taking them now would be stealing. Stealing something that was hers? Since that’s what someone who felt no pity for others would do: steal something that was rightfully hers! Oh, have mercy, dear God. You can take it all back, she insisted furiously. And then the front door slammed.
Then the front door slammed.
Then slowly she sat calmly on the sofa. Without leaning back. Just to rest. No, she wasn’t angry, oh not at all. But that offended speck in the depths of her eyes had grown larger and more pensive. She looked at the vase. “Where are my roses,” she then said very calmly.
And she missed the roses. They had left a bright space inside her. Remove an object from a clean table and from the even cleaner mark it leaves you can see that dust had been surrounding it. The roses had left a dustless, sleepless space inside her. In her heart, that rose she could at least have taken for herself without hurting anyone in the world, was missing. Like some greater lack.
In fact, like the lack. An absence that was entering her like a brightness. And the dust was also disappearing from around the mark the roses left. The center of her fatigue was opening in an expanding circle. As if she hadn’t ironed a single one of Armando’s shirts. And in the clear space the roses were missed. “Where are my roses,” she wailed without pain while smoothing the pleats in her skirt.
Like when you squeeze lemon into black tea and the black tea starts brightening all over. Her fatigue was gradually brightening. Without any fatigue whatsoever, incidentally. The way a firefly lights up. Since she was no longer tired, she’d get up and get dressed. It was time to start.
But, her lips dry, she tried for a second to imitate the roses inside herself. It wasn’t even hard.
It was all the better that she wasn’t tired. That way she’d go to dinner even more refreshed. Why not pin that cameo onto her little real-lace collar? that the major had brought back from the war in Italy. It would set off her neckline so nicely. When she was ready she’d hear the sound of Armando’s key in the door. She needed to get dressed. But it was still early. He’d be caught in traffic. It was still afternoon. A very pretty afternoon.
Incidentally it was no longer afternoon.
It was night. From the street rose the first sounds of the darkness and the first lights.
Incidentally the key familiarly penetrated the keyhole.
Armando would open the door. He’d switch the light on. And suddenly in the doorframe the expectant face that he constantly tried to mask but couldn’t suppress would be bared. Then his bated breath would finally transform into a smile of great unburdening. That embarrassed smile of relief that he’d never suspected she noticed. That relief they had probably, with a pat on the back, advised her poor husband to conceal. But which, for his wife’s guilt-ridden heart, had been daily reward for at last having given back to that man the possibility of joy and peace, sanctified by the hand of an austere priest who only allowed beings a humble joy and not the imitation of Christ.
The key turned in the lock, the shadowy and hurried figure entered, light violently flooded the room.
And right in the doorway he froze with that panting and suddenly paralyzed look as if he’d run for miles so as not to get home too late. She was going to smile. So he could at last wipe that anxious suspense off his face, which always came mingled with the childish triumph of getting home in time to find her there boring, nice and diligent, and his wife. She was going to smile so he’d once again know that there would never again be any danger of his getting home too late. She was going to smile to teach him sweetly to believe in her. It was no use advising them never to mention the subject: they didn’t talk about it but had worked out a language of facial expressions in which fear and trust were conveyed, and question and answer were mutely telegraphed. She was going to smile. It was taking a while but she was going to smile.
Calm and gentle, she said:
“It’s back, Armando. It’s back.”
As if he would never understand, his face twisted into a dubious smile. His primary task at the moment was trying to catch his breath after sprinting up the stairs, since he’d triumphantly avoided getting home late, since there she was smiling at him. As if he’d never understand.
“What’s back,” he finally asked in a blank tone of voice.
But, as he was trying never to understand, the man’s progressively stiffening face had already understood, though not a single feature had altered. His primary task was to stall for time and concentrate on catching his breath. Which suddenly was no longer hard to do. For unexpectedly he realized in horror that both the living room and his wife were calm and unhurried. With even further misgiving, like someone who bursts into laughter after getting the joke, he nonetheless insisted on keeping his
face contorted, from which he watched her warily, almost her enemy. And from which he was starting to no longer help noticing how she was sitting with her hands crossed on her lap, with the serenity of a lit-up firefly.
In her brown-eyed and innocent gaze the proud embarrassment of not having been able to resist.
“What’s back,” he said suddenly harsh.
“I couldn’t help it,” she said, and her final compassion for the man was in her voice, that final plea for forgiveness already mingled with the haughtiness of a solitude almost perfect now. I couldn’t help it, she repeated surrendering to him in relief the compassion she had struggled to hold onto until he got home. “It was because of the roses,” she said modestly.
As if holding still for a snapshot of that instant, he kept that same detached face, as if the photographer had wanted only his face and not his soul. He opened his mouth and for an instant his face involuntarily took on that expression of comic indifference he’d used to hide his mortification when asking his boss for a raise. The next second, he averted his eyes in shame at the indecency of his wife who, blossoming and serene, was sitting there.
But suddenly the tension fell away. His shoulders sagged, his features gave way and a great heaviness relaxed him. He looked at her older now, curious.
She was sitting there in her little housedress. He knew she’d done what she could to avoid becoming luminous and unattainable. Timidly and with respect, he was looking at her. He’d grown older, weary, curious. But he didn’t have a single word to say. From the open doorway he saw his wife on the sofa without leaning back, once again alert and tranquil, as if on a train. That had already departed.
Complete Stories Page 15