by Rona Jaffe
“My children …” she said.
“Yes?” He turned to her and took a quick gulp at his whisky.
“They have ruined the records, I’m afraid. I can’t prevent them. I hope it isn’t all spoiled for you.”
“Oh, no,” Carlos said. “No. Schubert’s Death and the Maiden. Very lovely.”
“It’s very tragic,” Leila said. “I sometimes feel when I listen to it that it was written for me.”
“For you?” He seemed startled. “Why?”
“The violins seem to reach out for me when I listen to it. The way Death was reaching out for the Maiden. I don’t know, really. I only know how I feel.” She smiled at him, her eyes opened wide, and sat on the couch spreading her red chiffon skirt about her. She had had this dress made especially for him; it had been completed today. The color of fire. Perhaps he would think of her differently in it.
Carlos did not sit down. He turned again to look at the titles on the spines of her books. “You have read Voltaire!”
“In French,” Leila said demurely.
“One must read Candide in French in order to get the true flavor of the style.”
“Yes,” she said, although she had never read it any other way. “Will you have some cashews with your whisky? A small sausage?”
He came over to where she was holding out a little silver plate and he took a sausage. He gave her a nervous smile but he did not sit down. She thought he looked like a man of the world, a scholar who knew how to make money as well. He wore a beautifully cut Italian silk suit. He was of medium height and thin, with graying hair that made him look older than forty, although she knew he was forty because in Rio you knew everything about everyone. He had a clear-cut, aquiline profile and vague, scholarly eyes. Leila thought he was very handsome. But he had never married. Forty years old and never married … She wondered if he would think he was too old for a woman of twenty-nine. No, men of forty usually thought she was too old for them!
She moved the corner of her red chiffon skirt aside to make room beside her on the couch. “Sit down, please.”
Carlos sat next to her and drained his glass of whisky. He seemed less ill at ease. “I like you very much,” he said.
“Do you!” She knew her smile was radiant, but she did not care. She had never been much good at hiding her emotions from anybody; whenever she felt happy it came bursting out.
“You are the only woman I can talk to,” Carlos said.
“I hope we will talk together many, many times.”
“I hope so too.”
She put more ice into his glass and poured more whisky. For herself, soda water, with a drop of whisky to color it, like a child’s drink. When she leaned forward to give Carlos his glass she hoped he could smell the perfume she had put all over her shoulders. It was real French perfume, not the barato they sold here and pretended was real.
The maid came in to announce dinner. “Please take your drink with you,” Leila said. “She serves very slowly.” She led the way into the dining room, walking with her back very straight, wondering if Carlos were noticing how tiny her waist looked in the full-skirted chiffon dress. She was none the worse for having had four children; she hoped he would realize that.
They sat opposite each other at the narrow end of the long, rectangular table. There were lighted candles in silver candelabra. It was a lengthy dinner with many courses, but all of them very light because of the heat, so that he would stay for a long time but not become so full that he would become unromantic. She wondered briefly, as they sipped at their delicate wine, if she really wanted Carlos to become romantic. This was the first time she had thought seriously of a man since João Alberto, and yet with Carlos it was entirely different. She admired his mind; he even awed her. He was handsome, in a distinguished way that awed her too. She did not feel a physical urge toward him as she had toward João Alberto, and yet, lately, she felt a stubborn, maddening urge for him to kiss her. At least he could kiss her. It was not kind of him never to try to kiss her, even when they were alone in a romantically darkened restaurant, or in his car, or at her doorway saying good night. It made her feel as if he did not want her or care for her at all; and yet tonight he had said that he did like her, that he liked her very much.
“You have such a look of concentration on your face,” Carlos said. “What are you thinking?”
“I am thinking of Plato,” Leila said with a little smile.
“Perhaps Plato the man, not Plato the writer.”
“So I have that kind of look?”
“I think you do.”
“To tell you the truth,” Leila said, “I was thinking what a terrible thing it is that you have never kissed me.”
“Now?” He did not seem startled or frightened; he seemed only amused. “Do you want me to kiss you now?”
“Why not?”
He rose, laying his napkin neatly beside his plate, and leaned across the table. Leila half rose too, and Carlos laid his hands very lightly on her bare shoulders and kissed her gently on the lips. “There,” he said, smiling, and sat down again, and arranged his napkin across his lap.
Leila’s head was swimming. She sat down again, slowly, like someone in a trance, her wide-open eyes fixed upon his face. She could hardly remember the kiss, it had been so light and brief, and yet he had kissed her, he had touched her bare skin with his hands, he and she were not apart. She sat there smiling tenderly at him and now it was she who was nervous.
“Do you know something?” Carlos said softly. He shook his head, smiling back at her. “You are only a child. A beautiful child. Someone should take care of you.”
“Yes …” Leila breathed.
“Someone will,” he said. He put his hand on hers and patted it. “How soft your skin … Someone will.”
The rest of their dinner passed as vaguely as a dream for her. She dimly heard herself whispering to the maid, offering Carlos more wine, suggesting he have a cigar with his cafezenho. She had been running a home since she was seventeen and presiding at dinners—twelve years—and it came automatically. But she had been dating men only one year, since she had recovered from mourning her lost marriage, and she felt confused and elated. When he kissed her she had felt her heart leap up; it was her heart she had felt, not his lips. Her heart had sprung from her mouth like an invisible bird and it circled the room, its fright mocking her. She wanted to put out her hand for it and comfort it, cradling its panicked wings, but she did not know how. She sat there in the candlelight, smiling, speaking in a soft and womanly voice of books and philosophy and music, without her heart, almost without her mind.
“Shall we go back into the library?” She rose, fluffing out her skirts that were the color of fire. “We could sit in the living room if you like, but I prefer the library because it is my own room. All the things I like are in there.”
Carlos followed her into the library. She put more records on the phonograph and poured brandy. Only one lamp was lighted. How opulent the room seemed in the shadows, as if she were a rich woman! Leila did not want him to know that she had hardly enough to live on; she did not want him to feel sorry for her. She had been deserted but she was not starving; she could still have a new dress made whenever she wanted one; she could buy Scotch whisky and real French perfume. She knew that girls had been after Carlos for years because of his money, and that was probably why he was so shy, but none of them had ever been able to talk to him as she could. She would be a surprise to him.
“I am writing two papers,” he said. He was sitting next to her on the sofa and touching her hand. “They are each so different it will make you laugh. One is an earnings report to my stockholders. The other is a paper on what is wrong with the Brazilian theater today.”
“I would like to hear about the second one,” Leila said demurely.
“And not the first?”
“If you would like to speak of your business, of course I would like to hear it. My … husband often spoke to me about his office.”
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“I could speak to you about my business,” Carlos said. “You would understand, I know that.”
“Thank you.”
“But, actually, I would rather hear myself speak about my paper on the Brazilian theater. I hope to have it published in a magazine. I compare our theater with the vitality of the theater abroad. I think our dramatists have much to learn from the vitality of foreign theater.”
She was leaning toward him, looking into his face. He had a half-humorous way of speaking, as if he did not really expect her to think anything he had to say was important. She wondered if that was the way he spoke to everyone, or only to women. He must be so used to having women pretend to understand what he was speaking about and then reveal themselves by some stupid flirtatious remark that had nothing to do with the subject.
“I would like very much to see the American theater,” she said seriously.
“Perhaps someday I will take you.”
“Really? Imagine! To America?”
“Why not?”
“Oh, you are teasing me,” Leila said. She had hold of his hand with both her own, like a child entreating a fascinating adult. “Do you mean it?”
“Would you go with me?” he asked. He had a little half-smile as he spoke.
“Of course I would!”
“Well, then …”
“We could travel on a ship,” she said dreamily. “It would take nearly forever.”
“Your eyes glitter like a little cat’s.”
“Little cat. My brother called me that.” Suddenly her eyes filled with tears and she turned away. She did not know why she felt so moved and full of confusion. She felt frightened, and she was no longer sure whether she was happy or not. She did not know whether Carlos was only teasing her about America; she did not know whether he meant they would go as a married couple or if she would only be his mistress. She did not want to go as his mistress. She did not know what she wanted, and she was afraid to ask him anything too seriously for fear he would stop smiling and admit the whole beautiful scheme had been only a joke.
“You are not going to cry?” he asked.
“No.” She wiped her eyes with her fingers and laughed.
“I love women because I can never understand them,” he said, smiling.
“You understand me.”
“Not altogether. I don’t want to. You are too charming the way you are.” He took her hands and kissed her fingers where they were damp from her tears, and then he kissed her mouth. This time she felt the kiss and tasted her own tears, salty now on his lips and strange to her. It was as if he had taken over her grief, as a man should, and was handing it back to her, impersonal now and no longer painful because he had taken the meaning of it away. Look, his kiss said, here are your tears of a moment ago, and they are nothing; only salt water.
She put her arms around his neck and kissed him several times, and he kissed her. There was nothing wild about their kissing; it was very gentle and romantic and comforting; almost a flirt. In her mind, behind her closed eyes, Leila could see a great white ship, with both of them on it, leaving the harbor.
“I must go now,” Carlos said softly, drawing away.
“So soon?”
“I must finish my stockholders’ report. I would much rather kiss you all night, but I cannot tell that to the stockholders.”
They walked to the door with their arms about each other’s waists. His waist was very lean. She was glad that he did not have an old body; he was still a comparatively young man; he would be a good husband. Even, she thought, perhaps even a good lover if I really am reckless enough to make love with him. It did not seem to matter, now that he was leaving her. She felt lonely. If he had stopped at the doorway and said, Be my mistress, I will stay, she would have agreed at that moment, only because the thought of closing the door behind him and being alone made her throat hurt.
“Where are your children?” he asked.
“I have sent them to spend the weekend with some friends in Petropolis. They hate the heat.”
“And you? Do you hate the heat too?”
“If I went away for the summer I would not be able to see you,” she said.
He smiled. “I am very lucky. Good night, little cat. Thank you for this evening.”
“It was nothing.”
She watched him as he walked down the hall and then she shut the door. He seemed happy but not eager to get away. As she walked slowly back to the library Leila went over in her mind everything that Carlos had said to her that evening and everything she had said to him. Had she said anything wrong? No, she had been intelligent, interested, solicitous. And he had seemed to like her. He had eaten very much at the table. He had drunk all the wine. He had admired her books. He had kissed her many times. Perhaps he really liked her more than any of the other women he knew.…
What he had said to her and what she had answered kept ringing in her head until she had no peace. She wanted to stop going over it all but she could not. Why couldn’t there be an answer, so that when a man spoke to a woman he said, I am now making love to you and I mean it because I love you. Or, I am making love to you but it is only a game, so laugh and you will not be hurt. No one spoke that way; you could not expect it. And yet, it was all so new.
She took a book from the shelf but she could not read it. Her mind kept leaving the page and returning to a recital of Carlos’ words. She would think of something else. Her children—no, if she thought of them she would worry. Were they homesick in Petropolis, were they crying? Teresinha often cried at night from nightmares when she was at home. Perhaps her older sister would make fun of Teresinha if she cried in bed, perhaps she would not understand. And the boys … would they do something reckless, would they get themselves killed? You never knew what boys would do if you didn’t watch them. They thought they were so strong, but they were only babies. Leila covered her face with her hands.
She would think of something else; she would remember. She would remember something funny from when she was young, before everything changed for her. She remembered her governess, Madame. Wherever she went she always had to go with Madame, that tall, heavy woman with the tiny eyes. Madame’s eyes were so small there seemed to be a useless space between them and around them that was her white face, and yet they were always darting to see that Leila was not talking to a boy or running out of sight. Leila remembered the night of her wedding, her civil ceremony, which took place the day before the religious ceremony, which really counted.
She and João Alberto had been married in the civil ceremony, but even then they were not allowed to be alone with each other, not even to go to the movies. There was a French film they wanted to see, so after the wedding she and João Alberto and Madame and João Alberto’s cousin Izabel and Izabel’s husband had all gone to the movies together. The two couples knew in advance how they would arrange the trick; they had done it often before.
When they entered the theater there was a great crowd. Everyone was rushing for seats. Leila and Izabel nodded at each other, and then Leila and João Alberto, clutching hands, had run upstairs to the balcony and Izabel and her husband had scampered to the front of the orchestra. Madame, not knowing which couple to run after first, had contented herself with galloping after Izabel because it was easier than running up so many stairs, and besides, Leila and João Alberto were already lost in the mob. They were alone! Leila and her husband of a few hours had sat in the last row of the balcony and kissed and kissed, not even knowing what was happening on the screen.
After the movie was over they walked demurely down the stairs into the lobby. Leila had smoothed her hair. “Oh, Madame!” she cried when she caught sight of her governess breathing fire and looking vengeful, “There you are!”
“Here I am, yes. And where were you?”
“We looked all over for you,” Leila said innocently. “You must have got lost in the crowd.”
“It was a terrible crowd,” Izabel chimed in like an angel.
“Tch!
” said Madame, but she protested no more, and behind her broad back as they walked home Leila and Izabel exchanged winks, smiling happily.
And the next day there was the religious ceremony, and forever after Leila and her husband were allowed to go to the movies together alone.
Leila stood up now and walked slowly around the library, turning out the lights. She emptied Carlos’ cigar ashes into a silent butler. You could not live in the past, and she was not even quite sure now that she wanted to. When she had been a girl running away from her governess to be with her fiancé it had not seemed as amusing as it did now when she looked back on it from far away. It was always easy to say the past was better, but Leila knew it was not, or at least hers was not. Many sad things had happened to her, but she was a grown-up woman now and she was free. She was sure many of her married friends were jealous of her because she had her freedom and could do what she liked.
It was so early; only eleven o’clock. She wondered if Carlos were hard at work on his stockholders’ report, or if he had only made an excuse to her and had gone to a boâte with someone else. She looked out the window, as if that could help her somehow, but of course she could see only the houses across the street. She looked at the telephone on the little table in the hall and looked away from it, biting at the edge of her finger until it was sore.
Then the telephone rang, almost as if her fierce look at it had caused it to vibrate. For a moment Leila could not believe it was actually ringing. She ran to answer it, pausing for a moment before she spoke in order to catch her breath and still the pounding of her heart.
“Hello.”
“Leila? Is it too late? Have I awakened you?”
“No, no, Ricardinho,” she said, trying not to let her disappointment show in her voice. She had known Ricardo all her life; she still called him “Little Ricardo,” even though he and she were the same age. “I was reading.”
“I was at a very dull dinner party at some friends of my mother’s. I thought I might take you to a boâte for a drink or two, some place cool. If you are not too tired?”
She almost said it was too late. Then she thought of Carlos. “I will go with you with pleasure,” she said. “Come right way.”