The Apple in the Dark
Page 41
For a moment Martim turned away from the heat to wipe
his face, and he saw Vit6ria among the thick clouds of smoke.
She was staring at the bonfire, her arms were crossed and her
hands were clutching at her shoulders coldly. It was a quick look
the man gave, and it had no expression. And then he went back
to poking the fire, as if he had not seen the woman. She kept on
standing there; he could almost guess the rhythm of her breathing. The afternoon was clear, but there was no sun. Yet next to the bonfire it was just as if night had come on, dark and
reddish.
Now the activity of the leaves and sticks of wood had
become intense and, carried by the wind and the frightened
force of the fire, the burning smell reached up beyond the
treetops. Now that the fire was completely in the open, the
flames were quick like joy and fear, the coals trembled with
illumination. Martim poked the fire with his pitchfork, quick
and skillfully, and there was no question about his skill, his
firmness had no pity. He was sweating, his attentive, reddened
eyes would not let the burning stop for an instant. The glare,
which sometimes rose up in a sudden larger impulse, was putting
the air of the yard to flame.
The woman was behind him, and he could sense her with his
back, his neck, his legs, no moment of truce, pushing him,
pushing him, asking for more as in the arena. Martim was
obeying as he concentrated his violence; the fire was climbing
higher and higher, crackling and obeying. Until the man unexpectedly spun around and turned his fury on her.
( 3 l 4 )
The Apple in the Dark
Her eyes were opened very wide, she was gasping as if she
had been running, looking horrified at the beauty of the world.
Then, without taking his eyes off her and without looking at
the pitchfork, he threw it far away with an effortless and brutish
gesture. And so, with empty hands, his arms hanging away from
his body, it was as if he had thrown away his last weapon and
was ready to fight with his bare hands. He would have offered
her his own death as an offense. But still he had not moved and
he was looking at the woman, breathing with difficulty, with
rage.
The woman did not look at him. Even had someone shaken
her by the shoulders, she would not have taken her eyes off the
fire.
But when the man's brute look made her look at him-not
at the other one, but at him-she stepped back a pace, as if she
had finally perceived that she had gone too far. The man was
leaning over frontwards, his naked arms open to the air like
those of a black and happy ape. She took another step backward,
terrified.
As unexpectedly as he had turned to face her, he turned back
to the bonfire-without the woman's even being able to determine in what moment the transition had taken place. And with fury the man poked the fire, the lowest flames began to rise
again-without being afraid of using his own life, Martim created the fire; he worked with those hands that had become quicker than the flame he challenged, and he could feel the heat
singe the hair on his arms.
Then, there was almost nothing left to do.
Like the first smoke, the final smoke was dirty and thick and
malignant; and it curled away in a twisting thread. The coals
were still blinking, for brief instants they would turn gold with a
show of life. Then one could sense that they flamed up because
there was no more light left, and they quietly went black.
The man watched them as he panted, his neck shining with
sweat. His mouth, still snarling from the effort, showed its teeth.
Finally, forced to admit that there was nothing more to be
( 3 l 5 )
T H E A P P L E
I N T H E D A R K
done, he dropped his shoulders, relaxed his arms, let his brow
rest. Covered by their lids once more, his eyes became calm,
intense. Without surprise he saw that Vit6ria was no longer
there. Then he looked foolishly around, as if he had just shown
what a man is capable of.
The afternoon was clear again. The great softness of the air
that enveloped his wet body made him scrutinize the sky with
infantile surprise, squinting up at it as if it had given him
something. He stretched his burned arms out to the breeze; he
leaned his lips against his scorched hands. Standing there, he
was complete, with an air that was mysterious, magnanimous,
bestial. Fighting with the fire had been the work of a man, and
he was proud and calm. And a woman had been terrorized and
satisfied; and because of that too he was calm and proud. Everything was so round and realized that there was even a touch of sad dignity in Martim. And the promise that was made to usthe promise was there. He could feel it there; he would only have to extend his hand that had finally been burned in the
exercise of his function as a man.
Even though now, older and wiser, he did not extend it.
But at least he had the gift of sight, and there was no
implication of mutual offense in that. At least he could look in a
grand way, and as one equal to another. Having nobly burned his
hand in combat, Martim looked. The countryside had become
vast and the light had the religious grace that comes to a man
who is no longer ashamed of himself and looks face to face at
human nature that has already been redeemed in him.
Unexpectedly, the first step of his great general rebuilding
had been accomplished. If he had created himself a while back,
now he was inaugurating himself. He had just reformed the
man. The world is vast, but so am I. With the obscure satisfaction of having worked at the fire and of having frightened what had to be frightened him in the shape of a word. He had
attained it with the innocence of strength. Just like that-he
had attained it. And then, with the smugness necessary for
creation, the whole time was being reborn for him, and he knew
( 3 l 6 )
The Apple in the Dark
that he had the strength to begin again. Because-because
finally having fully reached himself, he would reach men; and,
throwing away the pitchfork and working nakedly, exposed and
naked, he would guide himself even to "transform men."
How he would transform men, Martim was wise enough not
to know-and wise enough not to question, because he was a
wise man now.
But not knowing was of no importance. His future had now
become so vast that it was rising dizzily up into his head. The
time was ripe and the moment had arrived. That was all that his
calm heart and the patient breeze were telling him, and the deep
love that was peacefully spreading itself out from him was like
something that was finally taking root. It was because until that
moment he would not have been able to do it-as long as he
had not recovered in himself the respect for his own body and
for his own life, which was the first way of respecting the life
there is in other people. But when a man respected himself, then
he had finally created himself in his own image. And then he
would be able to look other
people in the eye. Without the
constraint of our great mistake, and without mutual shame.
And as for not understanding other people . . . Well, in a
woman, his first honor had been remade. It seemed to him that
from now on he would only need to have the voice of a man and
try to act like a man : that was what he was. Never had his
thoughts been as lofty as the work he had just done.
And deep inside himself he then began to despise people
who did not love what they were doing, or who did not have the
courage to do what they loved. Having forgotten that only a few
minutes before he had found a symbol of work, and that he
ought to be merciful toward those who had not found it, he was
fatuously admiring himself. That man was loving himself for the
first time, which meant that he was ready to love others, to love
us, who are given ourselves as a sample of what the world is
capable of; and himself, who had just proved it.
"How could I have imagined that the time was coming to an
end?" His heart was pounding hard. Because it just, it just
( 3 1 7)
T H E A P P L E
I N T H E D A R K
began . . . As if time had been created for a deeper freedom,
now suddenly the future was being reborn. And he who had
been sure that he had hesitated in its reconstruction saw that it
had only been the great patience of an artisan, and he saw with
pleasure that he had known how to sleep, which is the hardest
part of a piece of work. Because-as if the pause had only been
the preparation for the leap-his first objective step had unexpectedly ripened : for the first time Martim had made a complete advance, like someone who says a word. So the word that he had been waiting for had not come to him in the shape of a
word. He had attained it with the innocence of strength. Just
like that : he had attained it. And then, with the smugness necessary for creation, the whole time was being reborn for him, and he knew that he had the strength to begin again. Becausebecause finally having fully reached himself, he would reach men; and, throwing away the pitchfork and working nakedly, exposed and naked, he would guide himself even to "transform men. "
How he would transform men, Martim was wise enough not
to know. And wise enough not to question it, because he was a
wise man now.
But not knowing was of no importance : his future had now
become so vast that it was rising dizzily up into his head. The
time was ripe and the moment had arrived : that was all that his
calm heart and the patient breeze were telling him, and the deep
love that was peacefully spreading itself out from him like
something that was finally taking root. It was because until that
moment he would not have been able to do it-as long as he had
not recovered in himself the respect for his own body and for his
own life, which was the first way of respecting the life there is in
other people. But when a man respected himself, then he had
finally created himself in his own image. And then he would be
able to look other people in the eye. Without the constraint of
our great mistake, and without mutual shame.
And as for not understanding other people . . . Well, that
would not even be important any more. Because there was a way
( 3 l 8 )
The Apple in the Dark
of understanding that did not need any explanation, and which
came from the final and irreducible fact of standing there, and
from the fact that another man too has the possibility of standing
there-because with that minimum of being alive, everything was
already possible. No one so far has ever had a greater advantage
than that.
"Besides"-Martim thought, feeling that he was going beyond himself a little bit, but no longer able to hold back-"besides, it was foolish not to understand." "A person doesn't understand just because he doesn't want to! " he thought boldly.
Because understanding is a way of looking. Because understanding is, besides, an attitude. Martim, very satisfied, had that attitude, as if now, stretching out his hand in the dark and
picking up an apple, he would recognize, with fingers that love
had made so clumsy, that it was an apple. Martim no longer
asked for the name of things. It was enough for him to recognize
them in the dark-And rejoice, clumsily.
And afterwards? Afterwards, when he went out into the
light, he would see the things his hand had felt before, and he
would see those things with their false names. Yes, but he would
have known them already in the dark, like a man who has slept
with a woman.
Chapter 7
A LITTLE WHILE after that Martim was sent for.
The mayor of Vila Baixa was a clean little man whose hair
was slicked down, and he had an Argentine look about him. The
two detectives were short and calm. The professor was moving
about with intensity, his flabby jowls vibrating, as if he had to
take care of everything all at the same time. Martim was the
only tall person among them, as if he were surrounded by a band
of armed midgets. He looked around stupefied. It was because
there was no logic at all in what was happening. From the very
beginning, the fact that he was tall among so many short people
left him physically clumsy, incomplete, and at a disadvantage.
The others were waiting patiently. It was obvious that the
man had still not understood what was happening, and so they
were giving him time. Vit6ria, very pale, had put on the dress
she wore to receive visitors. The professor was talking on and on.
Martim kept nodding his head in agreement without hearing,
and he smiled as if that perhaps was what they expected of him;
until he found his footing, the best thing would be to move
cautiously in accordance with what the others expected.
" . . . you must understand! We have to take our punishment, you know why? If not, everything would lose all meaning!" the professor was saying agitatedly, and Martim, too confused to think about himself, wasted valuable moments in understanding finally why the two women called the professor
kind; he was; even if he was not; a man who passes judgment
makes a sacrifice. "We have to take our punishment! " the
professor repeated sadly. "You're an intelligent man, you must
understand ! I'm calling on an engineer! l'n1 talking to a superior
man; you must understand why I did this ! And I swear to you
( 3 2 0 )
The Apple in the Dark
that it's not for me that you must understand! Because I, I
understand what I did. God gave me the inspiration to make me
understand myself! Because if you don't understand, you're
doomed! If you don't understand, everything I did will be
doomed, and you won't finish what you started out to do with
your crime! You must understand that if there were no punishment, the work of millions of people would be doomed to uselessness ! " he shouted imploringly. "There are periods of
human history that have . . .
"
"Yes, yes," Martim said stupidly, calming him down.
"You're an engineer, a superior man, you must understand!"
the professor ordered.
"I'm not an engineer," Martim said then. "I'm a statisti
cian," he said very absent-mindedly, passing his hand over his head and losing a precious moment.
No one knew what to answer. The professor, a little unwillingly, made a gesture of sudden annoyance, as if he could have spared them the disagreeable news. But the tension had been
broken. For an instant the situation had been thrown off its
previous track which had been leading to what was still going to
happen-which left them all indecisive.
"What did he do?" Vit6ria finally asked the detective.
"I killed my wife," Martim said.
And he looked at her, deeply surprised. Could he have
forgotten?
"I killed my wife," he repeated then, testing what he said
with great care.
Was that all? Was that all? But then, why had he not said it
way back? He blinked his eyes, dazed. Vit6ria was looking at him
open-mouthed.
"But why?" she finally shouted, crushed. "But why? Why?! "
she became enraged.
"Because I was almost certain that my wife had a lover,"
Martim said.
It was surprising how easy it had become to talk, and it was
surprising what he himself had said. The detective with a piece
( 3 2 1 )
T H E A P P L E
I N T H E D A R K
of black tobacco on his lapel cleared his throat. "He'd come
back from a poker game and he started a row."
There was silence. Martim had not understood anything. He
smiled stupidly, he seemed a little embarrassed. "So much
attention," he thought, "being paid to me." He was overcome
by a crisis of timidity. He was not understanding any of it, he
only felt that he was losing time, which gave him an urgency
that was uncomfortable and physical. If there was some recognizable feeling in him, it was one of curiosity. He was looking about curiously. That was all that he could recognize. Because
from the moment he had said the surprising phrase to Vit6ria he
had become a stranger to himself. He had nothing more to do
with the man who had just lit a bonfire. Up to the point of
having the dizzy impression that before he had said the simple
revealing phrase he had been lying all the time.
Had he been lying all the time? Then he began to sweat a
little. There he was with a crystalized smile. In one minute he
had recovered the polish of one person among others, the civility