The Apple in the Dark

by Clarice Lispector

  minimum destiny that the brief insect also needs.

  It was with an obedient and thankful air, like that of a

  woman, that she told Martim she was going to mend his

  clothes. Stubborn above all, what she wanted was to project

  herself into the safe environment that the man had ultimately

  ( 1 7 1 )

  T H E A P P L E

  I N T H E D A R K

  created by living in the woodshed-spurs on the floor, the

  scythe, muddy boots, a world that could be touched. As she

  calmly picked up the clothes to be mended, she felt a happiness

  much too minute for her capacity to feel, but it was a question

  of what she wanted to be : concrete. Then she looked at him.

  Thank you for being real, her open eyes said.

  The man did not understand, but he puffed out his chest a

  little. As for her, now she could use the word love without lying,

  and with ingenuous hope, as if she did not know what it was.

  Because in one perfect moment, the world had become whole

  again, even with its ancient mystery-except that this time,

  before the enigma had closed, Ermelinda had put herself inside

  of it, just as enigmatic as the enigma. Then the girl got up, as if

  giving the man an order to go away and leave her alone.

  "I belong to you," was what was being said in the proud and

  mute way in which she stood, serene and without any humility.

  He seemed to understand; he did not want to have anybody

  belong to him, and he whistled as a cover-up, then he looked

  down at his own shoes. A woman was always more brazen than a

  man; he became embarrassed. She was noble. "She got what she

  wanted," Martim thought, offended in his own chastity, and

  covering up again with a listless whistle. "I belong to you," was

  being said tyrannically in the way she was standing; he grunted

  in agreement, uncomfortable, wanting to be free of her. Her

  shoulders were slender and fragile; her skin was like a child's,

  and as if he had shattered the girl's present, there was something

  of the past in her. She was soft around the waist. "My God," the

  man said to himself-"she's a ghost." He was comically embarrassed at her fragility. "Delicate, but a virago like the rest of them," he thought with malice, but he did not think that what

  he had said was funny, not even fun; what he really felt was a

  kind of pride in her-he admired her. Women always stretched

  things out longer than necessary and right away would start

  raising a family. And he was proud to be her victim : that was the

  constrained homage that the man succeeded in paying her.

  "Thank you for my liking you," the girl's look also said; but

  ( 1 7 2 )

  The Birth of the Hero

  that the man did not understand, and he only blinked his eyes.

  Then, as if he had had time to sense it better, he nodded in

  agreement, now that for one instant she had taken charge of

  both their destinies.

  And perhaps because his submission to her was the way in

  which he had made her submit, Martim became powerful and

  alive as he left the woodshed, with a touch of insolence.

  Chapter 7

  MARTIM SIGHED DEEPLY, as if until now he had been wearing a

  gag. It was sweet and powerful for a man to go out and for a

  woman to stay behind. That was no doubt the way things should

  be. Going down to the water of the river to wet his face he felt

  pride and calmness. Now that he had had a woman it seemed

  natural to him that everything should become understandable

  and within reach. The meadow was broad : a multitude of brilliant points against an obscure and uncertain background.

  Within his reach was the water, which the sun had turned into a

  hard mirror, and that was how it should be. He approved of the

  way the land was. Without modesty, like a man who is naked,

  he knew that he was an initiate. Facing the water, which was

  cutting him down with its scythe-like brilliance, everything was

  his, and a stupid happiness filled his head; in his arms he could

  still feel the weight that a submissive woman has. Initiated as a

  man who is alive. Even if he did not have time to be anything

  more than a man who is alive. It was a rare instant, and with no

  feeling of vanity he recognized it as such; before it vanished he

  touched it with all his soul so that his soul might at least have

  touched the enormous reality.

  "I wonder what the woman is doing all alone in the woodshed?" he thought, and he wondered what she wanted of him.

  The lucidity that was exaggerated by happiness made him

  understand that she was waiting for a word from him, and that

  she was tied to him by the last hope. And who was she? That had

  suddenly become important, who was she? Because if he had

  been locked in a cell with just a blade of grass in his hand, that

  blade of grass was everything that a whole field could tell him.

  And if he had taken a woman who was ugly and ignored, a

  woman among thousands of women, the whole world was in her,

  ( l 7 4 )

  The Birth of the Hero

  hoping for hope in him. But what could he give her except

  mercy? It was at that instant that uncertain and badly orchestrated, there crept into him for the first time the ancient word

  "mercy." But he had not heard it clearly.

  Because when he was thinking about Ermelinda he had

  begun to think about his own wife, listening to the radio as time

  slipped away, and receiving presents with a sigh. "Never look a

  gift horse in the mouth," she had said with a sigh. And thinking

  about his wife he thought about his son, about whom he had

  never wanted to think directly. He thought about his son with

  that first and happy pain, as if having Ermelinda in his arms had

  finally given him his son. That son he had produced with such

  care, and who had turned out so handsome, and who was quite

  tall for his age. And he thought of going to the mulatto

  woman's daughter the first time he spotted her spying on him,

  he needed a child so much.

  And with his son a love for the world had assaulted him. He

  now became quite moved by the richness of what existed; he

  became moved with tenderness toward himself. How very much

  alive and powerful he was ! How kind he was! Strong and

  muscular! "I am one of those people who understand and

  pardon ! " that was exactly what he was, yes, wrought up, missing

  his son. The sun had halted and was getting deeper and deeper

  into him; love for himself . gave him a grandeur he could no

  longer contain and which stripped him of the remains of his

  modesty. Next to the sparkling water, nothing seemed impossible

  to him. Now that he had taken the first step and through his son

  had reached that point at which pain was mixed with fierce joy,

  and joy was painful because that rapid point must have been the

  goad of life and his meeting with himself-then, just the way a

  dog's soul barks, irrepressible, he said : Ah l to the water.

  Ah ! he said with love and anguish and ferocity and pity and

  admiration and sadness, and all of that was his joy.

  But why was it not enough for him, then? Why w
as it not

  enough just to exclaim? Because it happened that he wanted the

  word. As long as he was who he was he would be prisoner of his

  ( 1 7 5 )

  T H E A P P L E

  I N T H E D A R K

  own breathing, waiting for the word to carry him to the image of

  the world, waiting for it to join him to himself, living with that

  word on the tip of his tongue, with understanding about to be

  revealed, in that tension which ends up becoming confused with

  life, and which really is life itself; it happened that he wanted

  the word.

  And now that he knew the oscillation of a human love; he

  had never been as close to it. The weeds trembled it. The water

  sparkled it. The black sun expressed it in its own way. And the

  meadow became more tense under the man's gaze.

  Why did he not say the word, then? The sun had halted.

  The water was cloudy. Martim was facing it. Why did he not say

  it? The fact was that everything was perfect and he was not

  needed. The hard glass of the water looked at him and he was

  looking. And everything was so splendid and motionless, so

  complete in itself, that the man did not wet his face; he did not

  dare touch the water and interrupt the great stasis with a

  gesture. Everything was bursting with silence. With the smell of

  warm grass that the wind brought from far off he breathed in the

  revelation, uselessly trying to think about it. But the word, the

  word, he still did not have it. The foot, the foot with which a

  man takes a step, he did not have it. He knew that it had been

  done. But he lacked the knowledge of what it is that a man does.

  If not, what good would he get from the freedom he had

  attained?

  The twisted sun was burning his head, leaving him tranquil

  and mad. It was then, under the truth of the sun, that he was

  finally not embarrassed to want the maximum. And through his

  love for his son, he decided that the maximum could be reached

  through mercy.

  Could that be the word? If it was, he did not understand it.

  Could that be the word? His heart beat furiously, dispirited.

  Not mercy transformed into kindness, but the deep mercy

  transformed into action. Because just as God wrote directly by

  means of crooked lines, in the same way great pity and love

  flowed through the lines of mistakes in action. Once a person

  ( l 7 6 )

  The Birth of the Hero

  had that strange capacity : that of having pity for another man,

  as if he himself were of a separate species. Because at that point

  he did not seem to want to rebuild only for himself alone. He

  wanted to rebuild for other people.

  Martim had just "drawn back the curtains."

  Had he just discovered gunpowder? It makes no difference;

  every man is his own opportunity.

  But through what action would love flow? From monstrous

  thought to monstrous thought, he calculated with lucidity that

  if he could obtain a new way of loving the world, he would

  transform it in smne way. The most important thing that could

  happen in a world made up of people-would it not be the birth

  of a new way of loving, the birth of an understanding? It was.

  Everything for Martim was unexpectedly coming into harmony . • .

  Then, intoxicated with himself, dragged along by the madness to which logical thought can lead, he calmly thought the following : if he could reach that method of understanding he

  would change men. Yes, he was not ashamed of that thought

  because he had already risked everything. "Would it change

  men even if it took a few centuries?" he thought without

  understanding himself. "Am I a preacher?" he thought, halffascinated. The fact was that in the meantime, however, he really had nothing to preach-which embarrassed him for an

  instant. But just for an instant, because a moment afterwards he

  was again so full of himself that it was a pleasure to see.

  Then he dropped the rest of his prudence, and without any

  shame at all he thought more or less the following: even if he

  spoke about his "drawing back the curtains" to just one person,

  that person would tell another, as in a "chain of good will." Or

  then-he thought boldly-that person, transformed by the

  knowledge, would be observed by another, and that one by

  another, and so on. And in a while there would be surreptitious

  news in the air, the way fashion spreads without anyone's being

  obliged to follow it. Because what are people if not the consequence of a way of understanding and loving that belongs to ( l 7 7 )

  THE

  A P P L E

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  T HE

  DARK

  someone already lost in time? "That was the way he lived." One

  person would tell another, as if it were the password he had been

  waiting for. "That was the way he lived," the rumor would pass

  around.

  Martim had finally made a pronouncement-except that he

  was constrained a little by the sudden ease with which it had

  come. But who could tell if that was not the way it was : that

  after it has been spoken, truth is easy? The obscure plan then

  seemed perfect to him, like a perfect crime.

  And full of himself, bursting with sun like a toad, the task

  seemed grand and simple to him-as now he mixed water and

  cement, preparing mortar for the well. The cauldron of the

  saints might be burning over his head, but he was concentrating

  on the sandals. His urgency was tranquil. Not an urgency that

  would make him want to skip stages, but an urgency like that of

  nature: without the loss of one instant, when a pause is in itself

  an advance. He mixed the cement with exactitude, with an

  uninterrupted urgency, just as the thousand shudders make up

  the vastness of the silence and the silence goes along. "The thing

  is progressing," he thought.

  He found that thought of his fine and his feelings fine too.

  He became emotional and serious; he stopped working for an

  instant. "I offer this thing I feel in homage to my mother," he

  thought vaguely, already a little absentminded. Then, having

  come by chance into closer contact with what he had thought,

  he found it "silly." But then he was very sorry that he had found

  it silly and said to himself, offended, "Let's not tum into such a

  beast that we think everything is foolishness." Since foolishness

  was a very long word which quickly lost its meaning he was

  finally left with nothing but a taste of nothingness in his mouth.

  That alerted him to how necessary it was to be careful not to be

  vague, which was a legitimate temptation-but if a person did

  not specialize, as they say about doctors, he would never get

  anywhere. It was very difficult to be global and at the same time

  try to maintain a shape. He could not afford to lose sight of

  himself.

  The Birth of the Hero

  As he began to concentrate, a certain plan began to take

  shape; the cement was taking on consistency. He applied himself

  with perfection to his work, peaceful hours passed.

  And the first cooler breeze finally blew.

  So when Ermeli
nda pushed open the door of the woodshed,

  afternoon had arrived. Like a continuation of the shadows of the

  room the whole afternoon had fallen apart and could be smelled

  in the quivering shadow of roots with ants upon them. The girl's

  eyes were broad, tranquil, avenged. She had managed to absorb

  the security of the man to use against the countryside, and

  armed with her talisman she looked out with a serene challenge;

  the countryside was nothing but a larger woodshed where a

  thousand trees had room to lose themselves in the distance. The

  world was a place-only that and nothing more. And the countryside had lost is lack of limits. Without any effort she passed across the multitude of grasses; the flowers had now been tamed.

  There were no wrinkles showing on her face. She looked like an

  Indian woman carrying a jug on her head, balancing herself so

  she could balance the jug. Nothing contradicted her. There are

  moments like that too.

  ( 1 7 9 )

  Chapter 8

  THAT NIGHT Martim had an excellent idea that would end up

  being just the opposite. What really happened was that later on

  the man had occasion to compare the excellence of his idea and

  its subsequent disillusionment with a round fruit that he had

  once eaten-a pomegranate-and which had proven hollow to

  his teeth. And as the only reward it gave him, an instant of

  absorbed meditation and a contact with experience.

  On that night, then, he lit the lantern, put on his glasses,

  took a sheet of paper, a pencil; and like a schoolboy he sat down

  on the bed. He had had the very sensible idea of putting his

  thoughts in order, summing up the results that he had reached

  that afternoon-there had been a time that afternoon when he

  had finally understood what he wanted. And now, just as he had

  learned to calculate with numbers, he got ready to calculate with

  words. The exaltation that had come to him with the afternoon

  sun had already left him now. Now he was a slow man who

  applied himself, the slow face a woman has when she threads a

  needle. His face concentrated on the trouble at hand.

  It came to him with some surprise that his thought proved to

  be as crude as the thick fingers gripping the pencil. As a start of

  the conversation, the pencil seemed too slim for his resolution,

  because that was too fat with decision. He did not know that in