When she entered the room, Paulino was studiously rummaging around in his wallet, and Maria Cláudia was staring down at the carpet.
21
Lying in bed, his feet resting on a newspaper so as not to dirty the bedspread, Abel was enjoying a cigarette. He had eaten well. Mariana was a good cook and an excellent housewife. You could see this in the way the apartment was furnished, in the small details. His room was further proof. The furniture was poor but clean and had a dignified air about it. There is no doubt that just as pets — well, cats and dogs at least — reflect the temperament and character of their owners, the furniture and even the most insignificant household objects reflect something of the lives of their owners too. They give off coldness or warmth, friendliness or reserve. They are witnesses constantly recounting, in a silent language, what they have seen and what they know. The difficulty lies in finding the best, most private moment, the most propitious light, in which to hear their confession.
Following the seductive movement of the smoke as it rose into the air, Abel was listening to the stories being told to him by the chest of drawers and the table, by the chairs and the mirror, as well as by the curtains. They were not stories with a beginning, a middle and an end, but a gentle flow of images, the language of shapes and colors that leave behind them an impression of peace and serenity.
Doubtless Abel’s satisfied stomach had an important part to play in that feeling of plenitude. He had spent many months deprived of simple homey fare, of the particular taste food has when prepared by the hands and palate of a contented housewife. He had grown used to eating whatever insipid dish of the day cheap restaurants served up and the kind of fried fish that, in exchange for a few escudos, gives those with little money the illusion that they have eaten. Perhaps Mariana suspected as much; how else to explain her invitation to join them in a meal when they had only known each other such a short time? Or perhaps Silvestre and Mariana were different, different from all the other people he had met so far. Simpler, more human and more open. What was it that gave to the poverty of his hosts the ring of pure gold? (This, by some obscure association of ideas, was how Abel experienced the atmosphere in their apartment.) “Happiness? That doesn’t seem enough. Happiness is like a snail; it withdraws into its shell when you touch it.” But if it wasn’t happiness, what was it then? “Understanding, perhaps, but understanding is just a word. No one can understand another person unless he is that other person. And no one can be simultaneously himself and someone else.”
The smoke continued to drift up from his forgotten cigarette. “Is it simply in the nature of certain people, that capacity to give off some life-transforming energy? Something… something that could be everything or almost nothing. But what is it? That’s the question. So let’s ask that question.”
Abel thought and thought again, but only came up with more questions. He was stuck, at a dead end. “What kind of people are they? What is that capacity of theirs? In what way do they transform life? Are those even the right words to describe it? Does the mere need to use words make it impossible to find an answer? But then how do we find the answer?”
Oblivious to Abel’s speculative efforts, his cigarette had burned down as far as the fingers holding it. Taking great care not to drop the long piece of ash, he stubbed the cigarette out in the ashtray. He was about to pick up the thread of his reasoning again when he heard two light taps at the door. He got to his feet:
“Come in.”
Mariana appeared, carrying a shirt:
“I’m sorry to bother you, Senhor Abel, but I’m not sure if this shirt can be mended…”
Abel took the shirt from her, looked at it and smiled:
“What do you think, Senhora Mariana?”
She smiled too and said:
“I’m not sure. It’s certainly seen better days…”
“Do what you can, then. You know, sometimes I have more need of an old shirt than I do of a new one. Does that seem odd to you?”
“I’m sure you have your reasons, Senhor Abel.” And she turned the shirt this way and that as if trying to make it clear to him how very decrepit it was. Then she said: “My Silvestre had a shirt a bit like this. I think I still have some scraps, enough at least for the collar…”
“That’s an awful lot of work, do you think perhaps…”
He stopped. He saw in Mariana’s eyes how sad it would make her if he did not allow her to mend his shirt:
“Thank you, Senhora Mariana. I’m sure you can save it.”
Mariana left the room. She was so fat as to be comical, so kind as to make one weep.
“It’s kindness,” thought Abel, “but that doesn’t seem enough either. There’s something here that eludes me. I can see that they’re happy. They’re very understanding and kind, I can see that too, but there’s something I can’t put my finger on, possibly the most important thing, which might be the cause of that happiness, understanding and kindness. Or perhaps — yes, that’s it — perhaps it’s simultaneously the cause and the consequence of that kindness, understanding and happiness.”
Abel could not, for the moment, find a way out of this labyrinth. That evening’s satisfying, comforting meal may have had a role in dulling his reasoning powers. He thought he might read a little before going to sleep. It was still early, just after half past ten, so he had plenty of time ahead of him. But he didn’t really feel like reading either, or going out, even though it was a warm, clear night. He knew what he would see in the street: people idling by or hurrying along, either curious or indifferent. Gloomy houses and brightly lit ones. The egotistical flow of life: greed, fear, longing, hope, hunger, vice, being approached by some woman of the streets — and, of course, the night itself, which removes all masks and shows man’s true face.
He made up his mind to go and talk to Silvestre, his friend Silvestre. He knew it wasn’t a good time, that the cobbler was busy on an urgent task, but if he couldn’t speak to him, at least he could sit near him, watch his skillful hands at work, feel his calm gaze. “Calmness is such a strange thing,” he thought.
Seeing him come out onto the enclosed balcony, Silvestre smiled and said:
“No game of checkers tonight, I’m afraid!”
Abel sat down opposite him. The low lamp lit up Silvestre’s hands and the child’s shoe he was working on.
“Well, that’s what happens when you have no fixed working hours.”
“I used to, but now that I’m an entrepreneur…”
He said this last word in a way that stripped it of all meaning. Mariana, sitting with her back against the sink and mending Abel’s shirt, joked:
“Yes, an entrepreneur with no money.”
Abel took out a pack of cigarettes.
“Would you like one?”
“Yes, please.”
However, Silvestre was too busy with his hands to take the proffered cigarette. So Abel took it from the pack, put it between Silvestre’s lips and lit it. All this was done in silence. No one mentioned the word “contentment,” but that is what they all felt. Abel’s keener sensibility noted the beauty of the moment. A pure beauty. “Virginal,” he thought.
His chair was taller than the benches on which Silvestre and Mariana were sitting. He could see their bowed heads, their white hair, Silvestre’s lined forehead, Mariana’s glossy red cheeks and the familiar light surrounding them. Abel’s face lay in shadow, the glow from his cigarette marking the spot where his mouth was.
Mariana was not one for sitting up late. Besides, her eyesight wasn’t so good at night. To her despair, her head suddenly drooped. She was definitely more lark than owl.