She found these discoveries confusing. But this also lent a certain grace. How to clarify herself, for example, what long, sharp lines did the mark clearly have? They were sharp and thin. At a given moment they were nothing but lines, ending up exactly as they had started. Interrupted, constantly interrupted not because they were likely to come to an end, but because no one could terminate them. The circles were more perfect, less tragic, and did not move her sufficiently. A circle was the work of man, completed before death, and God Himself couldn't improve on that finish. While straight, thin, free lines-were like thoughts.
There were other things that confused her. She remembered Joana as a little girl looking out to sea: the tranquillity that came from the eyes of an ox, the tranquillity that came from that sprawling expanse of sea, from the sea's deep womb, from the cat lying rigid on the pavement. All is one, all is one... she had chanted. The confusion stemmed from the entwinement of the sea, the cat and the ox with Joana herself. The confusion also arose because she did not know whether she had discovered 'all is one' when she was still a little girl standing looking out to sea, or later, when she remembered those moments. Meanwhile, the confusion didn't only confer a certain grace, but also a sense of reality. It struck her that, if she were to order and clearly explain what she had experienced, she would have destroyed the essence of 'all is one'. In her confusion, she was unwittingly truth itself, which probably gave her a greater capacity for life than knowledge of life. This truth, even though revealed, would be of no use to Joana, because it didn't form her stem but her root, fastening her body to everything that was no longer hers, imponderable and elusive.
Oh, there were motives for happiness, happiness without laughter, serious, profound, fresh. Whenever she discovered things about herself, the very moment she spoke, her thoughts were running parallel to the words. One day, she had told Otávio about Joana's childhood and the housemaid who invented more games than anyone she had ever known. And how she pretended to be dreaming.
— Are you sleeping?
— I'm fast asleep.
— Then wake up, it's morning... Did you dream?
At first she dreamed of sheep, of going to school, of cats drinking milk. Little by little she dreamed of blue sheep, of going to school in the middle of the woods, of cats drinking milk from golden saucers. And her dreams became increasingly dense and acquired colours that were difficult to dilute into words.
— I dreamed that white balls were rising inside...
— What balls? Inside where?
— I don't know, only that they were coming...
After listening to her, Otávio had remarked:
— I'm beginning to think that they abandoned you much too soon — your aunt's house... strangers... the boarding school...
Joana had thought: but there was the teacher. However, she replied:
— No... What else could they have done with me? Surely having had a childhood is everything one could wish for? No one could take that away from me... — and at this moment she was intrigued to discover that she was starting to listen to herself.
— I wouldn't like to go back to being a child, not even for a second, Otávio had continued, distracted, no doubt thinking back to the days of his cousin Isabel and sweet Lídia. Not even for a second.
— Nor me, Joana had hastened to reply, not even for a second. I feel no nostalgia, do you understand? — And at that moment she declared in a loud, deliberate tone of amazement — It isn't nostalgia for I now enjoy my childhood more fully than I did as a child...
Yes, there were many happy things mingled in her blood.
And Joana could also think and feel in various different ways simultaneously. And so, while Otávio had been speaking, even as she listened to him, she had been looking out of the window at a little old woman in the sun, grubby, frail and nimble — a branch quivering in the breeze. A dry branch where there was so much femininity, Joana had thought, that the poor woman might have had a son if life had not dried up in her body. Later, even as Joana was replying to Otávio, she remembered the lines her father had written specially to amuse her during one of those what-is-there-for-me-to-do outbursts:
Margarita befriended Violeta
the one was blind, the other mad,
the blind girl knew what the mad girl was saying
and ended up seeing what no one else saw...
Just like a wheel turning and turning, disturbing the air and creating a breeze.
Even to suffer was good because while the basest suffering unfolded, one also existed — like a river apart.
And one could also await the instant that came... that came... and suddenly precipitated into the present only to dissolve... and another that came... that came...
... The Bath...
The moment her aunt went to pay for her purchases, Joana removed the book and slipped it furtively between the others she was carrying under her arm. Her aunt turned pale.
Once in the street, the woman chose her words carefully:
— Joana.. .Joana, I saw you...
Joana gave her a quick glance. She remained silent.
— But you have nothing to say for yourself? — her aunt could no longer restrain herself, her voice tearful. — Dear God, what is to become of you?
— There's no need to fuss, Auntie.
— But you're still a child... Do you realize what you've done?
— I know...
— Do you know... do you know what it's called... ?
— I stole a book, isn't that what you're trying to say?
God help me! I don't know what I'm going to do, you even have the nerve to own up!
— You forced me to own up.
— Do you think that you can... that you can just go around stealing?
— Well... perhaps not.
— Why do you do it then... ?
— Because I want to.
— You what? — her aunt exploded.
— That's right, I stole because I wanted to. I only steal when I feel like it. I'm not doing any harm.
— God help me! So, stealing does no harm, Joana.
— Only if you steal and are frightened. It doesn't make me feel either happy or sad.
The woman looked at her in despair.
— Look child, you're growing up, it won't be long before you're a young lady... Very soon now you will be wearing your clothes longer... I beg of you: promise me that you won't do it again, promise me, think of your poor father who is no longer with us.
Joana looked at her inquisitively:
— But I'm telling you I can do what I like, that... — Her explanations were futile — All right, I promise. For my father's sake.
Some time later, passing the door of her aunt's room, Joana could hear her, her voice low and interrupted by her breathing. Joana put her ear to the door, at the spot where you could even see the mark of her head.
— She's like a little demon.. .,A woman of my age and experience, with a grown-up daughter of my own who is already married, yet I simply cannot cope with Joana... I never had any of this trouble with our Armanda, may God preserve her for the sake of her dear husband. I can no longer be responsible for the girl, I swear to you, Alberto... I can do whatever I like, she had the nerve to say to me after I caught her stealing... can you believe it... I was left speechless. I told Father Felicio, begged him to advise me... It upset him too... I've had enough! Even here in the house, she never says a word, as if she didn't need anyone... And when she looks at you, it's always straight in the eye, as if she were showing contempt...
— True, her uncle said slowly, the strict discipline at boarding school might help to tame her. Father Felicio is right. I'm convinced that if my brother were still alive he wouldn't hesitate in packing Joana off to boarding school, after catching her stealing... Especially stealing, which is particularly sinful in the eyes of God... Deep down this is what troubles me: her father, irresponsible as he was, wouldn't even have hesitated in sending Joana to a reformatory..
. I feel sorry for Joana, poor child. You must agree that we would never have considered sending Armanda away to boarding school, even if she had robbed the entire bookshop.
— That's altogether different! Altogether different — her aunt expostulated in triumph. Armanda, even were she to steal, is one of us! And what about this girl... There's no need to feel sorry for her, Alberto! It's me you should pity.. .Even when Joana isn't in the house, I'm uneasy. It may sound foolish, but I feel as if she were watching me all the time... and reading my thoughts... Sometimes I'm laughing at something when I suddenly break off as if I were paralysed. One of these days, here in my own home where I brought up my own daughter, I shall have to beg the forgiveness, God knows why, of this wretched girl... She's a viper. She's a cold-blooded viper, Alberto, she's capable of neither love nor gratitude. It's hopeless trying to show her any affection, or doing anything for her. I can't help feeling the girl is capable of murdering someone...
— That's quite enough! — her uncle exclaimed in alarm. If Joana's father had been a better man, he would rise from his grave this very moment!
— I'm sorry, I'm being stupid. She even makes me come out with these foolish statements... She's a strange creature, Alberto, who has neither friends nor God. May the Lord forgive me!
Joana's hands fidgeted, independent of her will. She observed them with mild curiosity and forgot them almost immediately. The ceiling was white, the ceiling was white. Even her shoulders, which she had always thought of as being so remote from herself, throbbed with life and began to tremble. Who was she? The viper. Yes, yes, where could she escape to? She didn't feel weak but on the contrary, gripped by a strange passion, mingled with a certain feeling of happiness, sombre and violent. I am suffering, she thought suddenly, taken by surprise. I am suffering, a separate voice of awareness informed her. And this other entity became gigantic all of a sudden and replaced what she was suffering. Nothing ever happened if she went on waiting for something to happen... Everything might come to a halt and Joana would find herself striking in a void like the hands of a clock. She remained empty for several moments, watching herself attentively, probing the return of sorrow. No, no, she did not want it! And as if to restrain herself, ardent and impassioned, she slapped her own face.
She fled once more to her teacher, who still didn't know she was a viper...
The teacher miraculously received her once more. And miraculously he penetrated Joana's nebulous world where he moved with gentleness and caution.
— It's not a question of matching up to other people's ideals. The important thing is to be worthy in yourself. Do you understand, Joana?
— Yes, yes...
He did most of the talking that afternoon.
— After all, animal existence is summed up in this seeking after pleasure. Human life is more complex: it is summed up in the pursuit of pleasure, in its fear, and, above all, in the intervening moments of dissatisfaction. I'm putting it rather simply, but that doesn't matter for now. Do you understand? Every desire is seeking after pleasure. Every moment of remorse, compassion, generosity, is its fear. All the despair, and searchings for other paths betray dissatisfaction. That's it summed up, as it were. Do you understand?
— Yes.
— When someone spurns pleasure, or starts living like a monk in any sense, it's because they have an enormous capacity for pleasure, a dangerous capacity — and so their fear is even greater. Only those who keep their weapons under lock and key are terrified of opening fire on everyone.
— Yes...
— I said: anyone who spurns... For there are plains, patches of land that will never flower without manure.
She went on listening to him and it was as if her uncle and aunt had never existed, as if the teacher and Joana herself were isolated within the afternoon, within understanding.
— No, I really don't know how to advise you, the teacher was saying. Tell me first of all: what is good and what is evil?
— I don't know...
— 'I don't know' is not a reply. Try to discover everything that exists inside you.
— To live is good... she muttered. Evil is...
— Is what...?
— Evil is not to live...
— And to die? — he probed.
— No, no... she groaned.
— What then? Tell me.
— Not to live is evil, that's all. To die is something else. To die is different from good and evil.
— Yes, he said, without understanding. Fine. Now tell me, for example: who is the greatest man alive today, in your opinion?
She thought and thought, and gave no reply.
— What do you like most? — he rejoined.
Joana's face lit up, she got ready to speak and suddenly found that she didn't know what to say.
— I don't know, I don't know, she said in despair.
— But how? Why then were you almost laughing with pleasure? — the teacher asked in surprise.
— I don't know...
He looked at her severely:
— That you shouldn't be able to name the greatest man alive today, even though you know lots of great men, is all very well. But I refuse to accept that you don't know what you yourself are feeling.
She looked at him with dismay:
— Believe me, the thing I like most of all in the world... is what I feel deep inside me, opening out as it were... I could almost tell you what it is, yet I cannot...
— Try to explain, he said, frowning.
— It's like something that's about to be... It's like...
— Like what? he leaned over, seriously demanding an explanation.
— It's like wanting to take a deep breath, but there's also fear... I don't know... I don't know, it almost hurts. It's everything... It's everything.
— Everything?... — the teacher asked in astonishment. She assented with a nod, visibly moved, mysterious, intense: everything... He went on looking at her for a second, his small face anguished and powerful:
— Fine.
He seemed satisfied but she couldn't understand why, since she hadn't got round to saying anything about that. However, if he was saying 'that's fine', she thought, fervent and submissive, then it was true.
— Which person do you most admire? apart from me, apart from me, the teacher added. Unless you help me, I shall never get to know you, I shall never be able to guide you.
— I don't know, Joana said, wringing her hands under the table.
— Why didn't you mention any one of the great men who are alive today? You know at least ten of them. You're much too honest, much too honest, he said with displeasure.
— I don't know...
— Well, it doesn't matter, he recovered his composure. Never worry about not being able to express an opinion on a wide range of topics. Never worry about being or not being something. In any case, I suppose this is the only advice you would accept. And get used to the idea: what you felt — about what you like most of all in this world -might only have been at the cost of not having any clear opinion about great men. You will have to give up lots of things in order to receive others. — Pause — Do you find this boring?
Joana thought for a second, her dark head tilted, her eyes wide open.
— But when you have the highest thing, she asked slowly, does that mean to say that you don't have all the things lower down?
The teacher shook his head.
— No, he said, no. Not always. Sometimes one can possess what is highest, in the end, one has the impression... — he looked at her askance — one has the impression of dying in a state of chastity. Perhaps this is because things are neither higher nor lower. Simply different in quality, do you understand?
Yes, she was beginning to understand those words and everything they embraced. Yet notwithstanding, she had the feeling that they possessed a false door, carefully concealed, through which she would discover their real meaning.
— That the words mean more than you said — Joana finished t
he explanation.
With a sudden movement, almost instinctively unawares, the teacher stretched his hand across the table. Joana, trembling with pleasure, put her hand in his, her face turning red.
— What's happened? — she said in a low voice. And she loved that man as if she herself were a fragile blade of grass being bent and lashed by the wind.
He did not answer, but his eyes were intense and betrayed compassion. What? — suddenly she took fright:
— What's going to happen to me?
— I don't know — he replied after a brief silence — perhaps you will find happiness one day, who knows, a happiness few people will envy you. I'm not even sure that happiness is the right word. Perhaps you won't find anyone else who feels as you do, like...
The teacher's wife came into the room, tall, almost pretty with that copper-coloured hair, cut short and worn straight. And, above all, those long, serene thighs, moving blindly, but with such confidence that it was intimidating. What was the teacher about to say, mused Joana, before she came in? 'No one else who feels as you do, like... like me?' Ah that woman. She looked at her furtively, then lowered her eyes filled with rage. There stood the teacher once more remote, his hand withdrawn, tight-lipped, indifferent, as if Joana were simply a 'little friend', as his wife would say.
Near to the Wild Heart Page 4