•
My uncle wrote me an exceptionally long letter. In a very formal style, he gave me permission to marry.
•
We were married at the end of summer. It was raining. The leached gray clouds, the tired light made my dress and orange blossoms seem whiter and the plants on either side of the church door greener. I remember the sound of the rain on the umbrellas, the red one as I entered the hotel, the black one as I entered the church. I didn’t want to take the dress off, ever. I felt like a different person in it, as if I were dead or some very old person traveling about after a long absence. We had dinner at home, alone, in the house that still smelled of damp cement and sand and paint. White roses had been arranged in the dining room, red roses in the bedroom. They gave off a caramel scent that annoyed me. He left me alone, and I opened the window and placed the flowers outside. I sat down in an armchair to rest for a moment and fell asleep. When I awoke he was sitting in front of me, gazing at me. I had an irrepressible desire to go out, stroll about, walk with him along the streets in my white dress. It was a dark night. The clock struck one as we left the house, not a soul on the streets. From time to time a gust of wind blew raindrops off the trees and with them the scent of earth and wet grass.
“Are they acacia trees?”
We stopped, and he embraced me.
“Content?”
“Happy.”
We must have been a good fifteen minutes from the house when it started to rain. The drops weren’t large, but they fell so heavily that they started to seep through my silk dress, leaving my back icy cold.
•
We were soaked head to toe by the time we reached the house. As soon as we entered, it began to rain harder. No words can describe how I loved that rain; the dull sound of it made me feel truly at home.
When dawn was breaking, he said, “Call me ‘Amor meu,’ my love.”
“Why?”
“Will you say it?”
“Amor meu.”
•
We spent our honeymoon in Venice and returned in the middle of winter.
•
The house was large. I ruled over the top floor, Elvira the ground floor: the two rooms overlooking the street — my husband’s office and the waiting room — the dining room, the kitchen, and a large parlor with a grand piano. Upstairs were the bedrooms, ours and the guest room; the bath; and a large, well furnished library with two balconies facing west. This is where I spent my time.
Mârius fell ill that winter. Influenza complicated by bronchopneumonia. That was when I met Roger, Mârius’s doctor, a friendly, optimistic fellow. Mârius considered him his best friend, his only friend really. One day when Mârius was convalescing, I went to the library to look for a book. When I couldn’t find it, I remembered that he had been reading it, and I thought he might have it in the briefcase he always kept by his side. I returned to our bedroom; he was seated facing the balcony, seemingly asleep. The briefcase was in the corner. I opened it and caught sight of a packet of letters between some of the files. A packet of mauve-colored envelopes, thirty perhaps. I’m not sure. I only know, I only recall that Mârius stood up quickly, came to me, and took the briefcase from my hands.
“What are you looking for?”
“The book you were reading, that you asked me for and I couldn’t find it in the library.”
“Why would you look for it here?”
•
That night I began to think about the letters and Mârius’s reaction. Whose were they? His? Had they been entrusted to him by a client? I sketched an entire novel around the letters. I was still awake when the sun rose. From the moment I met Mârius — since that day at the café—my memory of him had always been associated with the briefcase in his hand. Especially my visual memory.
Everything changed. Those letters. . he had taken the briefcase from my hand so abruptly. The letters represented something. What?
It was my birthday, and Roger was coming to dinner. I had been alone all afternoon. I had spent the time getting ready for the evening. I was going to wear what I had bought in Venice, the black crêpe dress and the open-toe shoes, their heels encrusted with green stones. I had pinned up my hair, had carefully made up my face and painted my fingernails. Just as I was about to put the dress on, Mârius came in. He had entered so quietly that he frightened me.
“Today’s your birthday, no?”
“Yes sir.”
“How many years?”
“Many.”
“Splendid.”
Splendid. He handed me a little box. I immediately thought: a piece of jewelry. I untied the gold ribbon and removed the tissue paper. Inside the velvet-lined box lay a diamond dove with its wings extended.
“I remember how you longed for a pair of doves; perhaps you will have the second one next year.”
I hugged him tightly, very tightly. The room was saturated by shadows and a gray, fleeting light. “Amor meu,” I whispered. I felt him bristle. I had the impression he considered those two words sacred, reserved only for the dark hours of the night. I was filled with anguish.
•
I forgot about the letters for a few days, but another incident made me wish to see them. I needed to discover who they were from and what they said. I knew practically nothing about Mârius’s life. I had never dared to ask him about his past, partly from discretion, partly because I was afraid of being disillusioned. I wondered why he had never spontaneously confided in me. Two weeks after my birthday, Mârius was called to the phone while we were having lunch. His briefcase was standing in the corner. I stood up without giving it a thought. Had I been told that lightning would strike me if I approached the briefcase, I would have done the same. It was locked. When I turned around, Elvira was standing by the table, looking at me. I was vexed and hated her. Suddenly I felt alone in a foreign house. Everything seemed strange and hostile. The walls, the furniture, those two people who could draw near without a sound, startle me, frighten me.
My desire to possess the letters was so intense that I was willing to risk everything.
From my diary:
I did something I should never have done. Something that did no one any good, but has hurt me tremendously. I took three letters from the packet. Just as I had resolved, I took the first and last letters, and one from the middle. The last was dated six months before I met Mârius. It tells of an affair that had ended. It is a letter of farewell. I have burned all three of them.
•
It isn’t true, I didn’t burn them. I had taken them while Mârius was in the bathroom undressing. The briefcase lay at the foot of the bed, locked as before. But I had anticipated that and calculated I could squeeze my hand under the flap and pull them out. My heart was pounding furiously at the thought of seizing them, my pulse too. I tiptoed barefoot to the briefcase, ready to act. I knew where they were and slipped my hand in. I pulled out the first letter in the packet, but there wasn’t much room beneath the flap and the enveloped got crumpled, making a noise. I held my breath. I reached in again and pulled out the letter at the end of the packet. Then I removed one from the middle. When I was ready to stand up, I couldn’t; my legs had no strength. I couldn’t think clearly. I could only feel the three letters in my hand; everything whirled around me. I hid them under the rug and, with a huge effort, returned to bed. A moment later Mârius opened the bathroom door and the light fanned out to the foot of the bed.