The Selected Stories of Mercè Rodoreda

by Mercè Rodoreda

  •

  I moved. I rented a room with a little kitchen in a hotel. Occasionally he would stay for dinner, and then we would go to the cinema. Three months passed.

  One day he asked, “Would you like to come to my house?”

  “Why?”

  “Have you ever realized that when I ask you a question, instead of answering you always say, ‘Why?’ I need you to come. Would you like to come to my house?”

  We took a cab. He held my hand the whole time. The house was in the center of town, but in a quiet area. It had a tiny garden in front with two acacia trees and looked quite bourgeois: two stories, with small, silver-colored iron balconies.

  “You’ll find it rather disorderly.”

  We laughed.

  We laughed because we both remembered his first visit to my room in the pension. On the door was a metal plaque: mârius roig, attorney. An elderly woman came to greet us, and he introduced her: “My family. This is Elvira, and she has been in the house for twenty years.” He introduced me as “My fiancée.”

  On the floor in the foyer lay a heap of cement and sand. They must have gotten scattered, because the floor made a scratchy noise as we walked through he house.

  “I have asked you to come because I want your opinion. As you can see I am renovating the house and I would like for you to . . .”

  “Why did you introduce me as your fiancée?”

  “Because that is what you are.”

  “Since when?”

  “Since the day you spilled the drink on me. Ah, do you like the bathroom? Do you want it with a door to the bedroom and a door to the hall, or only to the hall?”

  “Two doors.”

  A wave of happiness flashed across his eyes, so powerful that it frightened me.

  “That is the first time you have dispensed with the ‘Why?’”

  “I haven’t dispensed with it. Why do you want my opinion?”

  “Can’t you guess?”

  “Yes, but I find that you do everything without thinking of me.”

  “Quite the contrary. I do everything with you in mind. Is it not obvious?”

  •

  From my diary:

  It was starting to grow dark by the time we left, and he walked me along unfamiliar streets. Suddenly we found ourselves in front of the café. I thought to myself, ah, it’s close to the house. I remembered the winter, that cold afternoon when I was in such a bad mood. It all seemed so far away, a bit sad compared to now. I’m starting to like flowers.

  He took me to a concert. It was my first time in a concert hall. The program had Chopin, Ravel, and Mozart. When they played the last violin sonata by Mozart, I almost jumped out of my seat. He took me by the arm and gently pulled me back down. “I love you.” That was the first time he used the familiar form of the pronoun with me.

  The world he’s offered me is limpid, and I feel good in it.

  •

  “What is it you wish to tell me?”

  “Don’t laugh.”

  “I promise I won’t laugh.”

  “I’d like to have two doves.”

  And we burst out laughing.

  •

  The dressmaker came to fit my wedding dress today. I had to stand for two hours. I was close to fainting when she finally said, “We’re through now. Are you very tired?” I was terribly pale, and I felt as if the dressmaker was still sticking me with her pins. I observed myself in the mirror, surrounded by tulle and silk lace, and thought, “A white ghost is looking at me.”

  •

  My uncle wrote me an exceptionally long letter. In a very formal style, he gave me permission to marry.

  •

  We were married at the end of summer. It was raining. The leached gray clouds, the tired light made my dress and orange blossoms seem whiter and the plants on either side of the church door greener. I remember the sound of the rain on the umbrellas, the red one as I entered the hotel, the black one as I entered the church. I didn’t want to take the dress off, ever. I felt like a different person in it, as if I were dead or some very old person traveling about after a long absence. We had dinner at home, alone, in the house that still smelled of damp cement and sand and paint. White roses had been arranged in the dining room, red roses in the bedroom. They gave off a caramel scent that annoyed me. He left me alone, and I opened the window and placed the flowers outside. I sat down in an armchair to rest for a moment and fell asleep. When I awoke he was sitting in front of me, gazing at me. I had an irrepressible desire to go out, stroll about, walk with him along the streets in my white dress. It was a dark night. The clock struck one as we left the house, not a soul on the streets. From time to time a gust of wind blew raindrops off the trees and with them the scent of earth and wet grass.

  “Are they acacia trees?”

  We stopped, and he embraced me.

  “Content?”

  “Happy.”

  We must have been a good fifteen minutes from the house when it started to rain. The drops weren’t large, but they fell so heavily that they started to seep through my silk dress, leaving my back icy cold.

  •

  We were soaked head to toe by the time we reached the house. As soon as we entered, it began to rain harder. No words can describe how I loved that rain; the dull sound of it made me feel truly at home.

  When dawn was breaking, he said, “Call me ‘Amor meu,’ my love.”

  “Why?”

  “Will you say it?”

  “Amor meu.”

  •

  We spent our honeymoon in Venice and returned in the middle of winter.

  •

  The house was large. I ruled over the top floor, Elvira the ground floor: the two rooms overlooking the street—my husband’s office and the waiting room—the dining room, the kitchen, and a large parlor with a grand piano. Upstairs were the bedrooms, ours and the guest room; the bath; and a large, well furnished library with two balconies facing west. This is where I spent my time.

  Mârius fell ill that winter. Influenza complicated by bronchopneumonia. That was when I met Roger, Mârius’s doctor, a friendly, optimistic fellow. Mârius considered him his best friend, his only friend really. One day when Mârius was convalescing, I went to the library to look for a book. When I couldn’t find it, I remembered that he had been reading it, and I thought he might have it in the briefcase he always kept by his side. I returned to our bedroom; he was seated facing the balcony, seemingly asleep. The briefcase was in the corner. I opened it and caught sight of a packet of letters between some of the files. A packet of mauve-colored envelopes, thirty perhaps. I’m not sure. I only know, I only recall that Mârius stood up quickly, came to me, and took the briefcase from my hands.

  “What are you looking for?”

  “The book you were reading, that you asked me for and I couldn’t find it in the library.”

  “Why would you look for it here?”

  •

  That night I began to think about the letters and Mârius’s reaction. Whose were they? His? Had they been entrusted to him by a client? I sketched an entire novel around the letters. I was still awake when the sun rose. From the moment I met Mârius—since that day at the café—my memory of him had always been associated with the briefcase in his hand. Especially my visual memory.

  Everything changed. Those letters . . . he had taken the briefcase from my hand so abruptly. The letters represented something. What?

  It was my birthday, and Roger was coming to dinner. I had been alone all afternoon. I had spent the time getting ready for the evening. I was going to wear what I had bought in Venice, the black crêpe dress and the open-toe shoes, their heels encrusted with green stones. I had pinned up my hair, had carefully made up my face and painted my fingernails. Just as I was about to put the dress on, Mârius came in. He had entered so quietly that he frightened me.

 
“Today’s your birthday, no?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “How many years?”

  “Many.”

  “Splendid.”

  Splendid. He handed me a little box. I immediately thought: a piece of jewelry. I untied the gold ribbon and removed the tissue paper. Inside the velvet-lined box lay a diamond dove with its wings extended.

  “I remember how you longed for a pair of doves; perhaps you will have the second one next year.”

  I hugged him tightly, very tightly. The room was saturated by shadows and a gray, fleeting light. “Amor meu,” I whispered. I felt him bristle. I had the impression he considered those two words sacred, reserved only for the dark hours of the night. I was filled with anguish.

  •

  I forgot about the letters for a few days, but another incident made me wish to see them. I needed to discover who they were from and what they said. I knew practically nothing about Mârius’s life. I had never dared to ask him about his past, partly from discretion, partly because I was afraid of being disillusioned. I wondered why he had never spontaneously confided in me. Two weeks after my birthday, Mârius was called to the phone while we were having lunch. His briefcase was standing in the corner. I stood up without giving it a thought. Had I been told that lightning would strike me if I approached the briefcase, I would have done the same. It was locked. When I turned around, Elvira was standing by the table, looking at me. I was vexed and hated her. Suddenly I felt alone in a foreign house. Everything seemed strange and hostile. The walls, the furniture, those two people who could draw near without a sound, startle me, frighten me.

  My desire to possess the letters was so intense that I was willing to risk everything.

  From my diary:

  I did something I should never have done. Something that did no one any good, but has hurt me tremendously. I took three letters from the packet. Just as I had resolved, I took the first and last letters, and one from the middle. The last was dated six months before I met Mârius. It tells of an affair that had ended. It is a letter of farewell. I have burned all three of them.

  •

  It isn’t true, I didn’t burn them. I had taken them while Mârius was in the bathroom undressing. The briefcase lay at the foot of the bed, locked as before. But I had anticipated that and calculated I could squeeze my hand under the flap and pull them out. My heart was pounding furiously at the thought of seizing them, my pulse too. I tiptoed barefoot to the briefcase, ready to act. I knew where they were and slipped my hand in. I pulled out the first letter in the packet, but there wasn’t much room beneath the flap and the enveloped got crumpled, making a noise. I held my breath. I reached in again and pulled out the letter at the end of the packet. Then I removed one from the middle. When I was ready to stand up, I couldn’t; my legs had no strength. I couldn’t think clearly. I could only feel the three letters in my hand; everything whirled around me. I hid them under the rug and, with a huge effort, returned to bed. A moment later Mârius opened the bathroom door and the light fanned out to the foot of the bed.

  Mârius had been asleep for a while. He had turned on his side facing me, and I could hear him breathing rhythmically. I was suddenly full of regret. I struggled to compose myself, but I couldn’t hold back the tears. I wept silently, the tears gushing out. From time to time I felt one dropping on the pillow. “What’s the matter?” How I wished I could simply have disappeared. Mârius pulled me toward him and held me. “It’s only nerves, only nerves.” He ran his hand through my hair and kissed me on the forehead. I was on the point of confessing what I’d done, telling him how distressed I was, asking him for the love of God to tear up the letters, throw away the briefcase that disturbed my rest. The mere sight of it upset me. He went back to sleep, but I lay awake all night. I finally dozed off in the morning. Mârius had already left when Elvira brought my breakfast. I couldn’t eat a thing. My mouth had a bitter taste, my tongue felt thick. I took one sip of coffee and got dressed. Why couldn’t I read the letters at home? I don’t know. Once I was dressed, I collected them, placed them at the bottom of my purse, and left the house.

  Few people were on the street, but I felt like they were all observing me, could see the three stolen letters at the bottom of my purse. Somehow I found myself at a metro station; I don’t remember how I arrived there, but it seemed like a good place to read the letters. Who would take note of me seated on a bench with the hustle and bustle of trains and people? Then I caught sight of Roger approaching. I don’t know what expression of panic my face must have reflected; all I know is that his was filled with anxiety.

  “Are you ill?”

  “No, but I’ve been terribly nervous for some time now and I can’t sleep.”

  He smiled benevolently.

  “I can see that I need to pay you a visit.”

  “Any time you wish.”

  His presence calmed me, and I was sorry for him to leave.

  “You’re not getting on the train?”

  “No. I’m waiting for a friend.”

  He waved to me through the window, and I continued sitting on the bench, not daring to open my purse.

  When I emerged from the metro, I had the impression of arriving in a big city for the first time. The houses, the light, the sky, nothing was familiar. I felt the way a convalescent must feel after a long illness. I strolled about like an automaton. Instinctively I entered a café, as I had done in my student days. I sat down, removed the letters from my purse, and began reading them, as if the contents were completely irrelevant to me. The first read:

  Dearest,

  I can still imagine you at the station, I can hear your voice. You should not have come. I am obsessed by our parting, and a terrible sadness consumes me because we will never again live as we have during this time. Such brief happiness. Write to me, above all, write to me. If I had to be punished, the greatest punishment would be never to receive any news of you. Write to me in care of Eliana Porta, at her address. She is completely trustworthy. (Her address followed). I will never forget the months we have lived together. Remember this always: “I will never forget.” Elisa.

  The second letter was longer and sadder.

  Amor meu: life is so painful that I do not know when I will ever again find a moment of joy. I have given a lot of thought to what you propose, but it is not possible. I cannot ruin the life of a man who has placed all his trust in me. I cannot. Even yesterday, after a terrible night, I got up, determined to explain the situation. I couldn’t. Perhaps because I am weak, amor meu. It is too complicated to explain why we will be spending time in X. Nothing could hurt me as much. Eliana is coming with us. Write to me under her name as soon as you can. An occasional letter from you will comfort me in a way that no one, perhaps not even you, can imagine.

  I realize the risk involved, but if you could come . . . Just once. Do you recall the Hotel de Llevant, where we first loved each other, where we met? “Are you staying at the hotel?” “No, I live in a house on Avinguda de les Acàcies. I am meeting a friend, a woman who is staying here, in room number 10.” “Be careful not to speak poorly of me to your friend; I am in number 12.” Do you remember room 10, the balcony over the garden with the climbing jasmine, the sea?

  I didn’t finish reading it. I wanted to see the other one, from the end of the packet, which I assumed would provide the most information, the most insight into that morsel of life from which I was barred. It was last letter of the story.

  Amor meu, now we will not even have the consolation of writing to each other. Eliana is going away with her family for a while, but she is uncertain for how long. We will be left without even the comfort of seeing the familiar handwriting, only a shared past, fragmentary memories, a few sweet hours that slowly fade. You are free. If you despair, think of me, of my sacrifice, and remember that I suffer as much as you. Above all, remember that you have been, and will be, my only love. Elisa.

  It was lun
chtime and people had stopped work; the café had gradually filled by the time I left. It was late when I arrived home, and Mârius was waiting for me. He was concerned, had not wanted to eat without me. When he caught sight of me, he asked if I was ill. Could he have realized the three letters were missing? I could not be sure, and if he had realized, he dissimulated so well that he will never know how grateful I was. Yes, I was ill. Roger came that evening.

  “I ran into your wife this morning and told her I would stop by to pay a visit.”

  He prescribed a tranquilizer and recommended complete rest. I remained at home for a week, moving between my bed and the library. Before he left each day, Mârius would come to ask me how I was feeling. Sometimes he brought me flowers and magazines; his attentiveness was touching. As soon as I heard the front door close, I would remove the letters from my purse. Why had I not sought a different hiding place? I read and reread them. I knew them by heart. I am convinced that the days of “complete rest” were terrible for me. I tortured myself thinking about the woman that Mârius had loved. That he continued to love. That he loved. If he didn’t, why would he keep the letters, never letting them out of his sight? I was ravaged by an unbearable sense of inferiority. I felt as insignificant as a speck of dust. Why had he married me? Out of spite? Why was he lonely? What was I doing there, weary and heavyhearted? What was it that bound me to the four walls that surrounded me? Soon I began to live with a single obsession: meeting that woman, knowing what color her hair was, her eyes. What if it wasn’t over? And if there were more letters? When Elvira entered the room, she seemed like a jailer, and I was sure that from deep within her small, steely eyes she could see my truth and was glad.