The Apple in the Dark

by Clarice Lispector

  ends up not knowing.

  Oh, let's not get too complicated. After all, in the last

  ( 3 4 4 )

  The Apple in the Dark

  analysis everything is reduced to yes or no. He wanted a "yes."

  Which could be given with his head bowed or along with all of

  the rest of the cast on stage; it is a small matter of personal

  preference, and de gustibus non disputandum.

  And the truth was that Martim was about to collapse from

  fatigue. For months he had been working beyond his capacity

  because it was a question of an inferior person. His breath was

  short, and the capacity of his stomach small. The crime itself

  had been a performance that had drained him. "In jail I'll see if

  I can get some vitamin pills," he thought vaguely, he who had

  always had the secret desire to be fat. His breath was short and

  he was becoming nauseated over being a person; he had swallowed more than he could digest.

  Out of fatigue then, with the quick balm of a vision, he took

  refuge among the thick plants of his plot of ground, which must

  now be peacefully getting ready for night among the running of

  the rats. "I'm going to the devil," he then said to himself,

  looking at the men, nauseated at being a man. The peaceful

  plants were calling him. "Not to be," that was a man's vast

  night. "Even if it's not even the intelligence with which one

  goes to bed with a woman," he thought, deceiving himself, and

  so deep that he really did not understand what he had meant by

  it. His desirous thoughts went back to the plants of his Tertiary

  plot, with a longing for the black rats. A softness made up out of

  sensuality dragged him out of the struggle; it gave him a nostalgic shamelessness, a wandering melancholy. He still tried vaguely to stand up straight and make himself over: "I'm a

  Brazilian, after all, what the hell !" But he could not make it.

  That man was sated; he wanted refuge and peace.

  But in order to find that peace he would have to forget about

  other people.

  To find that refuge he would have to be himself, that

  himself that has nothing to do with anybody else. "But I have a

  right to that!" he justified himself in a tired way. "What the

  hell ! What do I have to do with other people? There's a place

  where, before order and before names, I am I ! And who can tell

  ( 3 4 5)

  T H E A P P L E

  IN

  T H E D A R K

  if that's not the real place in common with what I set out to

  find? That place which is our common and solitary land, and

  where we just feel around like blind men. Isn't that all we ask

  for? I accept you : place of horror where cats meow contentedly,

  where angels have nighttime space to flap their beautiful wings,

  where the innards of a woman are a future child, and where God

  rules that grave disorder of which we are the happy offspring.

  Then why fight? Inside a man there was a place which was

  pure light, but it did not show itself in the eyes or cloud them

  over. It was a place where, all tricks aside, one exists; a place

  where, without the least pretension, one exists; or will we be,

  from the fact of just being, warhorses! Let's not complicate life;

  we have a right to this tranquil pleasure! And it isn't even a

  matter for discussion; we don't have the capacity for argument.

  To be honest, long before we were aware of it, dogs were already

  loving each other; in short, by the right of having been born, we

  have the right to be what we are. So let's take advantage of it,

  let's not exaggerate the importance of other people! Because

  there exists in a man a point that is just as sacred as the existence

  of other people. Let other people take care of themselves ! From

  birth a man has the right to be able to go to sleep peacefullybecause things are not as dangerous as all that, and the world won't come to an end tomorrow. Fear may have confused reality

  with desire a little bit, but the dog in us knows the way. "What

  the hell ! What blame do I have for the silent faces of men? You

  have to trust a little too, because thank God we have strong

  instincts and sharp teeth, not to mention intuition. After all is

  said and done, from birth we have that capacity to sit down

  quietly beside the door of a house at night. And there are ideas

  that come out of that . . ."

  Yes, that was the way it had happened to him. Some ideas

  and fright. Fright, rage, love, and then the door of the house

  becomes small, and those feelings and those rights are not

  enough. You have to be born to something greater . . . What's

  missing? When the house itself becomes small, the man leaves

  at dawn to bring something back.

  ( 3 4 6 )

  The Apple in the Dark

  Martim came to rapidly. His softness had passed. That was

  his chance! He could not lose it out of mere fatigue, he who had

  gone through a whole life without knowing what to do with his

  small self, and who now at last had found what to do with

  himself, small as he was. Join up with the small ones. He came

  to rapidly, now that he had finally reached a small apotheosis.

  "O.K., let's get going," the detective said, folding up the

  map.

  "I hope, ma'am," the mayor said, "that he hasn't caused you

  any trouble. You were very brave, there aren't many women who

  could have had a criminal in their house without being afraid.

  Many ladies like you, that is. Those of us in the town hall hope

  that it hasn't been any trouble for you."

  "No, no," Vit6ria said rapidly, blushing because she was

  confused.

  Trouble? No, no. Hadn't she got what she wanted out of

  him, hadn't she?

  "Let's go then," the detective said, looking at Martim in a

  way that was feigned a little, he being really quite used to

  prisoners. "You don't seem to be the kind of person who would

  try to make an escape, but I'd better tell you that I'll shoot you

  at the first sign."

  Large and unarmed, Martim was quick to say:

  "No, I'll behave! " He said it with pleasure and attention,

  trying with pleasure to repeat some previous situation, by means

  of which this one would become understandable. "And don't

  forget that I didn't do anything, see? Don't forget to tell that to

  the judge: I didn't do anything! Don't forget that I could have

  tried to run away," he said in his wisdom.

  "Try it and see."

  "Oh, I don't mean that I could run away now!" Martim

  corrected him respectfully. "I meant that I could have run away

  before! Because before you got here, don't forget, I had months

  in which to run away!"

  What passed rapidly through his head was this : i t would

  have been in his favor if he had lied, saying that he had not run

  ( 3 4 7 )

  T H E A P P L E

  I N T H E D A R K

  away because he had planned to give himself up . . . Butthinking well and on new terms-how could anyone understand why he had not run away unless he had planned to give himself

  up? That he had not run away for other reasons was a truth that

  no longer existed. For an instant Martim
remembered the sheet

  of paper on which he had written his plans, and he remembered

  that he had not run away because he had wanted to have enough

  time to carry them out-but that had now become so incomprehensible and was so far removed from the thinking of the four men that it only had one real and final meaning: it had stopped

  him from running away. Which could be called a lack of

  resistance. Which could be an extenuating circumstance. How

  perfect everything had turned out! He blinked.

  "You couldn't have run away if you'd wanted to," the

  detective answered. "After this lady told the professor about her

  suspicions, we began investigating; and you were under surveillance. If we didn't move sooner it was because our method is to be sure of what we're doing," he added with dignity.

  Martim nodded his head with surprise and curiosity; he had

  completely forgotten how, in a general way, people are stupid.

  "But I couldn't have guessed that I was being watched,

  could I?" he argued with patience. "I didn't know that I was

  being watched, and yet I still didn't try to run away, did I?"

  "No, that's right," the detective agreed reluctantly, looking

  at him a little fascinated : there was something wrong with it all,

  but the detective couldn't say what.

  "Sure he knew he couldn't get away," dared the one with

  tobacco on his lapel, who was one of the liveliest people that

  Martim had created. "He knew he couldn't get to run away," he

  said, trying to clear up the confusion into which the prisoner had

  plunged them-"and knowing he was surrounded, he decided

  not to run away so he could look like a person who's sorry and

  wants to surrender!" he suggested with sagacity.

  �artim looked at him, surprised. He was going to have to

  expenence everything! Even innocence. Unjustly accused, for

  the first time Martim was experiencing innocence. His eyes

  blinked damply, gratefully. Another symbol had been reached.

  ( 3 4 8)

  The Apple in the Dark

  And Martim understood then why his father, already near

  the end of his life, would say stubbornly, inexplicably, "I always

  got what I wanted." Yes, in some way, one always got it. "And I,

  what did I get? I got experience, which is the thing that people

  are born for; and there is deep freedom in experience. But

  experiencing what? Experiencing that thing which we are and

  you are? It's true that the most we experience comes with pain,

  but it's also true that that is the inescapable way of reaching the

  one maximum point, and everything has one moment, and then

  we get ready for the other moment, which will be the first oneand if all of this is confusing, we are completely protected in all of this by what we are, we who are desire."

  "But in the end, what did I get from all of that? A lot. And

  so many times our freedom is so intense that we turn our faces

  away. Yes, but in everything I got, what can I do with the evil?

  Oh, but it's as if evil were the same thing as good, except that it

  has different practical results. It comes from the same blind

  desire, as if evil were the lack of organization of good; so many

  times a very intense goodness overflows into evil. The natural

  fact is that evil is a more rapid means of communication. But

  from now on I'm going to organize my evil into good, now that I

  no longer have the same hunger to be good. Now that I'm ready

  for my own soul, now that I love other people. Will I still be

  able to get something? But I did manage to give the world

  existence! Which means that now I should be ready to take part

  in a war of vengeance or of goodness or of error or of glory, and

  that I'm ready to make mistakes or be right, now that I am at

  last common."

  With a bit of fright, Martim understood that he had not

  been looking for freedom. He had been trying to free himself,

  yes, but only so that he could go on without any barriers to meet

  his fate. He had wanted to be unencumbered; the truth was that

  he had unencumbered himself of a crime. He did not want to

  invent a destiny, but he wanted to copy some important thing

  which was fateful in the sense that it was something that already

  existed, and of whose existence he had always known, like one

  who has the word on the tip of his tongue and cannot remember

  ( 3 4 9 )

  T H E A P P L E

  I N T H E D A R K

  it. He had wanted to be free to go out and meet what existed

  and what was not any more attainable. It was as unattainable as

  inventing. No matter how much freedom he might have, he

  would only be able to create what already had existed. The great

  prison! The great prisonl But it had the beauty of difficulty.

  Finally he had got what he wanted. I have created what already

  exists. And he had added something more to what had existed :

  the immaterial addition of himself.

  "Let's go," Martim said, going over to the four men and the

  security they were offering him. "Let's go," he said with the

  dignity of a fireman. "Good-bye, Dona Vit6ria-"

  Remembering with sudden pleasure a very ancient and

  humble phrase, gospel words, he then added, almost marvelling,

  slowly, little by little :

  "Forgive me for anything I may have done that I did not

  mean to do."

  What bothered Martim then was the fact that he had not

  quoted the phrase exactly. No, that was not how the phrase he

  vaguely remembered went!-and it became important for him

  to reproduce it without the slightest error, as if a simple change

  in syllables would change its ancient meaning and take away the

  perfection of a perfect way to say good-bye-any transformation

  in ritual makes a man individual, which leaves in danger all the

  construction and work of millions; any mistake in the phrase

  would make it personal. And, frankly, there was no need to be

  personal. If it were not for that stubbornness, a person could

  discover that perfect formulas already exist for everything he

  wants to say, that everything he had wanted to come into

  existence had already really existed; that the word itself came

  before man-and those four representatives knew that. They

  knew that the whole question is a matter of knowing how to

  imitate, because when the imitation is original, it is our experience. Martim had come to understand why people imitated.

  And suddenly, just like that, Martim remembered what the

  phrase was!

  "Forgive me for any thoughtless remark!" he corrected himself then with vanity, because that was the ritual phrasel ( 3 5 ° )

  The Apple in the Dark

  "Come now," Vit6ria said, blushing, turning her eyes away.

  "All of us," Martim said, suddenly illogical, "all of us were

  very happy I"

  "Come now," Vit6ria repeated.

  Martim stuck out his hand impulsively. But because the

  woman had not expected the gesture, she drew back frightened

  as she put out her own. In that fraction of a second, the man

  withdrew his own hand without offense-and Vit6ria, who now

  had hers outstretched, stood there with her arm uselessly and

  painfully extend
ed, as if hers had been the initiative of reaching

  out-with a gesture that suddenly had become one of appealfor the hand of the man. Martim, perceiving in time the thin outstretched arm, ran forward emotionally with both of his

  hands uplifted, and he warmly squeezed the icy fingers of the

  woman, who could not restrain a movement of retreat and fear.

  "Did I hurt you? ! " he shouted.

  "No, no! " she protested, terrified.

  Then they were silent. The woman did not say anything else.

  Something had ended definitively. Martim looked at that

  empty, tremulous female face, that shapeless, human thing that

  had two eyes.

  And then the mercy that he had been waiting for all of his

  life broke out inside his chest heavily and impotently, the

  exposed heart of Jesus, mercy attacked him like a pain. The

  man's eyes became glassy, his features filled up with a beauty that

  only God would not be repelled by, he seemed about to have

  had an attack of paralysis. He babbled :

  "Please forgive me for not having . . ." -and the worst

  part of what he said was happily inaudible, as if the paralysis had

  already reached that mouth, which was twisted with mercy.

  Vit6ria raised her heard. Her insulted face became white,

  tragic, and hard. But her look did not tremble, and the face that

  had been slapped stayed haughty and empty. Martim had the

  feeling that his very kindness had been a terrible blow-did he

  have the right to be good?

  "Please forgive me for not having . . .

  " he murmured as he

  excused himself like someone who was impotent.

  T H E A P P L E

  I N T H E D A R K

  But she would never forgive him. Why had he asked for

  pardon? She would never forgive him. If until then there had

  been no question of accusing him, at that moment in which he

  begged forgiveness he had opened up a wound that could not be

  healed. And he saw that, that she would not forgive him. He saw

  that, even if it were something that he had thought of or spoken

  about. But he knew; she would never forgive him. That was not

  a thing that could be spoken; it was a thing that was happening,

  and it was not the absence of words that makes something that

  was existing stop existing, and a plant feels when the wind is

  dark because it trembles, and a horse in the middle of the road

  seems to have had a thought, and when the branches of a tree