When Marta was around fourteen she had had a classmate named Florinda. Florinda, although she was the same age, was not a girl—she was already a woman, and very beautiful. With every gesture, every smile I saw how she overshadowed my daughter and I suffered to think that they went to school together, to parties, on outings; it seemed to me that as long as my daughter remained in that company life would continue to escape her.
On the other hand Marta was very attached to her friendship with Florinda—was violently taken with her—and it seemed to me a difficult and risky enterprise to separate them. For a while I tried to console her for that permanent humiliation by sticking to generalities, without ever using Florinda’s name. I kept telling her: how pretty you are, Marta, how sweet, you have such intelligent eyes, you look just like your grandmother and she was a real beauty. Vain words. She thought she was not only less attractive than her friend but less attractive than her sister, than everyone, and listening to me she became more depressed, she said I was saying those things because I was her mother, and sometimes she murmured: I won’t listen to you, Mama, you don’t see me for what I am, leave me alone, mind your own business.
At that time I had a constant stomachache from tension, from a sense of guilt: I thought that any unhappiness in my daughters was caused by a now proved failure of my love. So I soon became more insistent. I said to her: you really do look like my mother, and I brought up my own case, telling her: when I was your age, I was sure that I was ugly, I thought: my mother is pretty but I’m not. Marta let me know, multiplying her signs of annoyance, that she couldn’t wait for me to stop talking.
So it happened that, in consoling her, I felt more and more disconsolate myself. I thought: who knows how beauty is reproduced. I remembered too well how, at Marta’s age, I had been certain that my mother, in creating me, had separated herself from me, as when one has an impulse of revulsion and, with a gesture, pushes away the plate. I suspected that she had begun to flee the moment she had me in her womb, even though as I grew up everyone said that I resembled her. There were resemblances, but they seemed to me faded. Not even when I discovered that I was attractive to men was I appeased. She emanated a vital warmth, whereas I felt cold, as if I had veins of metal. I wanted to be like her not only in the image in the mirror or in the stasis of photographs. I wanted to be like her in the capacity she had to expand and become essence on the streets, in the subway or the funicular, in the shops, under the eyes of strangers. No instrument of reproduction can capture that enchanted aura. Not even the pregnant belly can replicate it precisely.
But Florinda had that aura. When she and Marta came home from school one rainy afternoon, and I saw them walk through the hall, the living room, in heavy shoes, carelessly spotting the floor with mud and water, and then go into the kitchen, grab some cookies, amuse themselves by breaking them into pieces and eating them as they went through the house, leaving crumbs everywhere, I felt for that splendid adolescent girl, so self-assured, an uncontainable aversion. I said to her: Florinda, who do you think you are, do you behave like that at your house? Now, my dear, I want you to sweep up and then wash the floor, and don’t leave until you’ve finished. She thought I was joking, but I took out the broom, the bucket, the mop, and must have had a fierce expression on my face, because she murmured only: Marta made a mess, too, and Marta tried to say: it’s true, Mama. But my words must have been so harsh, uttered with such an indisputable severity, that they were both immediately silent. Frightened, Florinda washed the floor with care.
My daughter watched her. Afterward she shut herself in her room and wouldn’t speak to me for days. She isn’t like Bianca: she’s fragile, she gives in at the first change of tone, she retreats without fighting. Florinda gradually disappeared from her life; every so often I asked how is your friend, and she muttered something vague or answered with a shrug.
But my anxieties didn’t disappear. I observed my daughters when they weren’t paying attention, I felt for them a complicated alternation of sympathy and antipathy. Bianca, I sometimes thought, is unlikable, and I suffered for her. Then I discovered that she was much loved, she had girl and boy friends, and I felt that it was only I, her mother, who found her unlikable, and was remorseful. I didn’t like her dismissive laugh. I didn’t like her eagerness to always claim more than others: at the table, for example, she took more food than everyone else, not to eat it but to be sure of not missing anything, of not being neglected or cheated. I didn’t like her stubborn silence when she felt she was wrong but couldn’t admit her mistake.
You’re like that, too, my husband told me. Maybe it was true, what seemed to me unlikable in Bianca was only the reflection of an antipathy I felt for myself. Or no, it wasn’t so simple, things were more tangled. Even when I recognized in the two girls what I considered my own good qualities I felt that something wasn’t right. I had the impression that they didn’t know how to make good use of those qualities, that the best part of me ended up in their bodies as a mistaken graft, a parody, and I was angry, ashamed.
In fact, if I really think about it, what I loved best in my daughters was what seemed alien to me. In them—I felt—I liked most the features that came from their father, even after our marriage stormily ended. Or those which went back to ancestors of whom I knew nothing. Or those which seemed, in the combining of organisms, an ingenious invention of chance. It seemed to me, in other words, that the closer I felt to them, the less responsibility I bore for their bodies.
But that alien closeness was rare. Their troubles, their griefs, their conflicts returned to impose themselves, continuously, and I was bitter, I felt a sense of guilt. I was always, in some way, the origin of their sufferings, and the outlet. They accused me silently or yelling. They resented the unfair distribution not only of obvious resemblances but of secret ones, those we become aware of later, the aura of bodies, the aura that stuns like a strong liquor. Barely perceptible tones of voice. A small gesture, a way of batting the eyelashes, a smile-sneer. The walk, the shoulder that leans slightly to the left, a graceful swinging of the arms. The impalpable mixture of tiny movements that, combined in a certain way, make Bianca seductive, Marta not, or vice versa, and so cause pride, pain. Or hatred, because the mother’s power always seems to be that she gives unfairly, beginning in the living niche of the womb.
Starting right there, according to my two girls, I had behaved cruelly. I treated one as a daughter, the other a stepdaughter. To Bianca I gave a large bosom, while Marta seems a boy; she doesn’t know she’s beautiful, and wears a padded bra, a ploy that humiliates her. I suffer seeing her suffer. As a young woman I had large breasts, but after her birth I didn’t. You gave the best of yourself to Bianca, she repeats constantly, to me the worst. Marta is like that, she protects herself by seeing herself as deprived.
Not Bianca, no, ever since she was a child Bianca has fought me. She tried to pluck from me the secret of skills that in her eyes appeared wonderful and show that she in her turn was capable of them. It was she who revealed to me that when I peel fruit I am finicky about making sure that the knife cuts without ever breaking the peel. Before her admiration led me to discover this, I hadn’t realized it, goodness knows where I learned it, maybe it’s only my taste for ambitious and stubbornly precise work. Make a snake, Mama, she would say, insistent: peel the apple and make a snake, please. “Haciendo serpentinas,” I found recently in a poem by Maria Guerra that I’m fond of. Bianca was captivated by the serpentines of the peel, they were one of the many magical abilities she attributed to me; it seems touching now when I think about it.